“The sulphur is found in many different conditions, but for the most part in the same finely-divided, whitish-yellow form in which it is precipitated from sulphuretted hydrogen solutions. Where it assumes other states, crystallised in tears on the surface of the rocks, or coagulated in veins, it is on account of its having undergone subsequent heating. Of its primary origin by the decomposition of sulphuretted hydrogen, there is in my opinion no doubt.

“Professor Bunsen visited Krisuvik in 1845; his opinion is that sulphurous acid is evolved from the earth’s interior, which, oxidised either at the surface by the atmosphere, or at subterranean depths by atmospheric oxygen dissolved in cold water, is converted into sulphuric acid. The sulphuric acid thus generated is diffused among the constituents of the decomposed beds. This process represents the first stage of the fumerole action, which is manifested in the namar or solfatara of Krisuvik.

“Sulphur is now generally regarded as emanating from the stage of intermittent lethargy of a volcano, and the sulphides of iron, copper, arsenic, zinc, selenium, etc., fall in the same category as sulphur; they are secondary, not primary, formations. In the stage further off we have the host of sulphates produced by the oxidation of the sulphur into sulphuric acid, and its subsequent reaction on the metals and earths with which it becomes associated.

“The description of the Sicilian sulphur beds coincides so very exactly with that of the Icelandic mines, that one might pass very well for the other. D’Aubigny pictures nearly the whole of the central portion of Sicily as being occupied by a vast bed of blue clay or marl, in which are numerous and thick beds of gypsum and sulphur, and a combination of this mineral with iron and copper. The natural process by which they have been formed must, I think, be the same in each case. At Krisuvik copper has been found only in small quantities, but that is probably because it has not been sought for below the surface. Carbonate of copper, associated with sulphate of lime, is of frequent occurrence; and native copper has to a limited extent been discovered.

“A district in America, very similar in most of its characteristics, has recently been explored. The great hot-spring region of the sources of the Yellowstone and Missouri Rivers, in the United States, has, on account of the wonderful natural phenomena there manifested, been set apart by the United States Congress as a great national park for all time.

“The whole of this district is covered with rocks of volcanic origin of comparatively modern date. At present there are no signs of direct volcanic action going on, but the secondary kind of action, resulting probably as at Krisuvik, from the disintegration and decomposition of beds of volcanic origin, is in full progress. Boiling springs, mud-caldrons, and geysers are found in all parts of the region, and the description given by Mr V. Hayden, of the Yellowstone Lake and its vicinity, in every respect coincides with those of the geysers, mud-caldrons, and hot-springs of Iceland.

“In all cases there was found to be free access of water; free sulphur was widely dispersed, and the steam-jets were invariably accompanied by large quantities of sulphuretted hydrogen. The subterranean action in this country does not appear to have continued long enough to produce beds of sulphur and sulphur-earths, but has, nevertheless, been of sufficiently long standing to build up geyser tubes of so great a length that the internal pressure has formed other vents, rather than lift the immense column of water above it.

“The water of the springs contains sulphuretted hydrogen, lime, soda, alumina, and a slight amount of magnesia; some of these are only occasionally at the boiling point, and these, when the temperature is reduced below 150° Fahr., deposit great quantities of the sesquioxide of iron, which lines the insides of the funnels, and covers the surface of the ground wherever the water flows. If the reaction consists in the decomposition of iron pyrites, and the sulphur is carried sufficiently far off to prevent its re-combination with the iron to form iron sulphate, the formation of the iron sesquioxide is fully accounted for.

“As a rule, the groups of hot springs are, as in Iceland, in the lower valleys, and either along the margins of streams, or nearly on a level with them. The grand area where they occur is within the drainage of the Yellowstone, where a space of forty miles in length, with an average width of fifteen miles, is either at the present time, or has been in the past, occupied by hot springs.

“That the quantity of sulphuric acid here produced is very large, is proved by the immense quantity of alum which is found, for the streams, the mud, the earth are thoroughly impregnated with it. The funnel-shaped craters from which the boiling mud is ejected, are so similar to those of the Krisuvik that the figure on page 140 will answer for both places. The circular rim varies from a few inches to several feet in diameter. Sometimes these are clustered close together, yet each one being separate and distinct from the others.

“The foregoing are the most prominent facts connected with the development of sulphur from the earth in the elementary state. The full explanation of all the phenomena accompanying it appears to me to be the key by which the great secret of volcanic energy may he ultimately unlocked. At present it appears to be doubtful whether the sulphur results from the decomposition of metallic sulphides, by heat and water combined, or by sulphuric acid formed by the oxidation of sulphurous acid. In the one case, the whole action is so far within our reach, that it should not be an insurmountable difficulty to establish the point as to whether the whole action does not depend on the percolation of water into beds of pyrites surrounded by other beds which are non-conductors of heat.

“The other view, viz., that the sulphur proceeds as sulphurous acid from a lower depth, is on account of the more complicated action required, far from being as satisfactory to my mind as the more simple supposition above.

“Until boring experiments have been made, conducted with great care, and to considerable depths, no positive conclusion can be arrived at. It is also an element in the question of much importance, to discover whether the beds penetrated by the water are already heated, whether the water is heated before it reaches the sulphur-bearing strata (the clays containing pyrites), or whether both are not alike cold till they have been for some time in contact.

“Less than a quarter of a mile from the hot springs is a lake, Geslravatn, formed by the filling up of an extinct crater. This the inhabitants describe as being fathomless (Mr Seymour, last year, found no bottom at five and twenty fathoms). The depth is, at any rate, very considerable. Although so close to a spot where the ground is, even at the surface, scorching to the feet, the water in this lake is ice-cold. Sir George Mackenzie also remarked a somewhat similar fact. On the side of the Sulphur Mountain, amidst the seething, steaming hills of almost burning earth, a spring of clear cold water was met with. To my mind these facts are most in accordance with the view that the action is local and self-dependent.

“The Krisuvik sulphur mines have been worked at various times, but want of proper roads, and ignorance of the proper method of extracting and refining the sulphur, have prevented their proper development. The Sicilian mines can be worked at a considerable profit, where, more than 390 feet below the surface, beds are met with containing only 15 per cent. of sulphur. At Krisuvik, absolutely on the surface, clays are met with which contain from 15 to 90 per cent. of sulphur. Under proper and careful supervision, their future should be prosperous.

“Two German gentlemen, under the auspices of the Danish Government, worked these mines in the early part of the last century, and so much was exported to Copenhagen during the time the excavations were carried on, that a sufficiently large stock was laid up to serve the consumption of Denmark and Norway from 1729 to 1753.

“Horrebow describes the sulphur mines as being actively worked from 1722 to 1728, to the great advantage of the inhabitants, who reaped much profit from its extraction.

“By his account of their mode of prosecuting this enterprise, the sulphur does not appear to have been refined in the island, but exported in its crude state. The less active mines were chosen for cutting into. He says: There is always a layer of barren earth upon the sulphur, which is of several colours, white, yellow, green, red, and blue. When this is removed, the sulphur earth is discovered, and may be taken up with shovels. By digging three feet down, the sulphur is found in proper order. They seldom dig deeper, because the place is generally too hot, and requires too much labour, also because sulphur may be had at an easier rate, and in greater plenty, in the proper places. Fourscore horses may be loaded in an hour’s time, each horse carrying 250 lbs. weight. The best veins of sulphur are known by a kind of bank or rising in the ground, which is cracked in the middle. From hence a thick vapour issues, and a greater heat is felt than in any other part. These are the places they choose for digging, and after removing a layer or two of earth, they come to the sulphur, which they find best just under the rising of the ground, when it (the sulphur) looks just like sugar candy. The farther from the middle of the bank, the more it crumbles, at last appearing as mere dust. But the middle of the bank is an entire hard lump, and is with difficulty broken through. The brimstone, when first taken out, is so hot that it can hardly be handled, but grows cooler by degrees.

“In two or three years these veins are again filled with sulphur. The death of the person at Copenhagen who had the sole and exclusive privilege of exporting sulphur from Iceland put an end to what had promised to be a very thriving industry. The inhabitants continued to collect the sulphur earth for some time after its exportation had ceased; and many of them lost considerably by it, large quantities having been gathered which they were never able to dispose of.

“According to Dr Perkins, the sulphur mines were again worked by the Danish Government for fifteen years, but the method of purifying adopted was very imperfect. The sulphur earth was heated in iron boilers, and when the sulphur was melted, fish oil was added, and the whole mass stirred up. On allowing the mixture to stand for a time, the earthy matter formed a soap on the top of the molten mass; this being removed, tolerably pure sulphur remained behind.

“In 1832, these mines were visited by K. von Nidda, the celebrated geologist, by whose advice a Danish merchant, named Kenidzon, purchased them. He only worked them for a short period. The sulphur earth was collected without much regard being paid to the relative richness of the beds. It was taken on the backs of horses to Havnafiord, and thence shipped to Copenhagen. The cost of transport brought the sulphur to too high a price to render the undertaking successful.

“In 1857, political matters caused the attention of Her Majesty’s Government to be directed to finding a new source of sulphur supply. Commander J. E. Commerell, of her Majesty’s ship ‘Snake,’ was sent to Iceland by the Lords Commissioners of the Admiralty, to visit and report upon the capabilities of the mines of Krisuvik and Husavik. He found that the nearest safe port to the Krisuvik beds was Havnafiord; this port is fourteen miles from the sulphur beds by the present roads, and nine miles from Reikjavik. The harbour is well sheltered, with good anchorage of seven or eight fathoms three cables’ length from the beach; it at present enjoys as much traffic as Reikjavik. The road from Krisuvik might be much shortened, and a tramway might also he laid down. During the past year a survey has been made, and plans drawn for a railway or tramway to Havnafiord.

“The actual extent of the sulphur beds it is quite impossible to calculate; forty-seven have been already discovered. The deposit of sulphur Commander Commerell personally saw he describes as amounting to many thousands of tons, and, all the mines being in what is called a ‘living’ state, the sulphur taken away is reproduced in two or three years. He considers that sulphur in a pure state could be shipped at Havnafiord for £1 per ton.

“The sulphur at Myvatn, though great in quantity, is, he considers, at too great a distance from a port of embarkation to permit its extraction being carried on with any chance of competing with that from the Krisuvik mines.

“No further steps were taken in the matter by the British Government, the political complications which led to the expedition having been removed; but the attention of English merchants having been drawn to these rich deposits by the highly favourable character of Commander Cornmerell’s remarks, renewed attempts are being made to render commercially available the immense sulphur-producing power which the Krisuvik solfataras undoubtedly possess. To some of these gentlemen I am greatly indebted for much valuable information, put at my disposal for the purposes of this paper, and amongst them I have specially to tender my thanks to Mr Ramsdale and Messrs Thorne, of Gracechurch Street, and particularly for the use of numerous and carefully-selected samples of the sulphur earths which were freely placed at my disposal. These samples I hope to make the subject of a future paper.

“Since writing the foregoing paper, I mentioned, in the course of conversation with Sir Henry Holland, the conclusions which are derived from the examination of all the trustworthy facts relating to the sulphur deposits. This led him to examine entries in his unpublished diary, made at Krisuvik in 1810. The theory which he then conceived so thoroughly agrees with all that has been learnt respecting the phenomena in question, that I, with his kind permission, print an extract from his note-book:

“‘The theory of these sulphureous springs (if springs they may be termed) at Krisuvik is an interesting object of inquiry. They are situated in a country decidedly of volcanic origin. The high ground on which they appear is composed principally of the conglomerate or volcanic tufa, which has before been noticed. The source of the heat which can generate permanently so enormous a quantity of steam must, doubtless, reside below this rock; whether it be the same which produces the volcanic phenomena may be doubted, at least if the Wernerian theory of volcanoes be admitted. It certainly seems most probable that the appearances depend upon the action of water on vast beds of pyrites. The heat produced by this action is sufficient to raise an additional quantity of water in the form of steam, which makes its way to the surface, and is there emitted through the different clefts in the rocks. The sulphates of lime and alumina, appearing upon the surface, are doubtless produced, in process of time, by these operations. In corroboration of this view, it may be observed that the quantity of steam issuing from the springs at Krisuvik is always greater after a long continuance of wet weather, and that whenever earthquakes occur on this spot, it is during the prevalence of weather of this kind.’

“The learned and now aged author expressed the highest gratification that the views which he formed at twenty-two years of age should possess so much value so many years after.”

The visit of the two engineers, Messrs Shields & Gale, has also been elsewhere alluded to. Finally, Mr R. M. Smith informs me that the prospects of the Krísuvík diggings now look brighter. The project of tramways, or locomotives, seems to have been abandoned in favour of carts and ponies plying on a good road, about sixteen miles long, between the Sulphur Mountain and Hafnafjörð.

Section II.—To Hekla, and up It.

The next morning’s work began with a path which introduced us to the mud-bog, as opposed to the turf-bog. This pleasant feature led to lava, whose three main torrents and many secondary streamlets could be seen spilling over the trap wall of Lángahlíð. There were the two normal kinds, the soft and cindery, caverned and friable, which makes good paths: it degrades to the dark red and yellow-red humus which is here, as in the Haurán, the general colour of the ground. This variety is clad with two lichens; the grey with black scutella (L. calcareus?), and the pure white (L. Tartareus?) which makes the ejections of the Safá near Damascus simulate limestone. The other is intensely hard, ruddy black or brown-grey, and in places solid as if poured out yesterday; the reason generally given is the presence of olivine in this trachytic or silicious form. M. Durocher’s theory is, that being lighter than the doleritic and augitic (basic), it therefore floats separately, and thus he would explain how lava floods of different composition may proceed from the same locality.[93] The plications of this hard lava, looking as if hogs-heads of honey had been poured upon stone, the domes and the drops, not to speak of the sharp-toothed mouths and crevasses, make the traveller suffer for the sufferings of his nag.

At the end of the first great lava-stream was the farm of Herdísarvík; now not a “vik” but a “vatn”—we looked around for sulphur, but in vain. Hard by our right the fierce seas burst and roared upon a coast cruel and harbourless as that of Kafir-land; whilst in the smooth distance a few catspaws suggested shoaly islets. The Hlíðarvatn (lithe or slope water) is not like its neighbour a misnomer, but the supply is brackish, ebbing and flowing with the tide, like wells in the valley of the Thames. The only birds seen were wild geese, crees, gulls, curlews, young snipes, and ravens which especially affect this warm part of the island. During the halt we especially noticed a number of web-less hunting spiders, whose little nests were full of young—the peasants still preserve the old Köngur-váfa (web-weaver) which the citizens hold obsolete, preferring Könguló or Konguló. There are spider-stories, too, like the Gold Coast “Anansesem;” a small red species, for instance, kills when it bites.

From Litlaland, which we reached whilst the sun was still high, we enjoyed a pleasant view. Beyond the rise of Thorlakshöfn lie the “Irish Islands,” tall and picturesque, fronted by the great alluvial plain of south-western Iceland. It has been called Tempe, Arcadia, and Vale of Enna, though utterly unlike the grim defile of Peneus, the stern limestone mounts of the Peloponnesus, and the waterless slopes of Sicily. The “Pastorale in A flat,” as Thomas Hood, sen., would have called it, a raw northern facsimile of the Lagos Lagoon, as it appeared to me, gains dignity by the eastern background of eternal snows, the flat top of Eyjafjall, the long ridge of Tindafjall, and the sharp point of Torfajökull. And it is “classic ground.” From a commanding site we can prospect Ingolfsfjall, where Iceland’s first settler is supposed to be buried, and the Bergthórshvoll farm in the delta of the Markarfljót; behind it lies Hlíðarendi, where the “peerless Gunnar” sleeps in the Tverá Holm.[94]

There is—for Iceland—rare pathos in this description of the hero’s tomb.

The next morning led us to Reykir. As we rode up the valley of the Ölfusá we could mark the features of the scene. In front the river was a lake, and the green expanse of the water-veined delta was scattered over with south-facing farms, not acknowledged by Gunnlaugsson and Olsen. Eyrarbakki, so called from the host of islets which line the shore, is the only port till Berufjörð on the eastern coast, and it was wholly occupied by two ships. Mr William Hogarth of Aberdeen, who owned the establishment, has not been here, we were told, for years; lately, however, some English visitors had excellent fishing in the river, and were hospitably entertained by Hr Thorgrimsson, agent to M. Lefolii, a Danish merchant. All this greenery was set off by the barrenness of the buttressed Lángahlíð hard on our left. The regular horizon of trap-wall had been succeeded by a sharp slope of Palagonite conglomerate, which evidently underlies the whole block. On the summit is a desert where no man dwells, broken by pyramids which are evidently lava-cones, Skálafell (scald or bald hill?) being the chief feature; upon the lips of the plateau are gushes of modern lava, and on the low levels appears an ancient sea-beach, scattered with rounded blocks like giant rocs’ eggs.

“Hjalli,” which we reached about noon, was somewhat peculiar—instead of being a single farm, four establishments clustered round the black chapel. It had its rivulet where the girls comb their yellow hair o’ mornings; the Lavapés (wash-feet) of the Brazilian country town; it had also its Paradís, a poetical name for the grassy combe, where men bask i’ the sun. The males were clad in pastoral attire, the old native dress deemed somewhat too marqué for town and comptoir. The chief items are a shirt, a waistcoat, and a tight, very tight, flannel culotte, braccæ gartered below the knee and ending in stockings and Iceland shoes. The stranger’s first impression is that harlequin, without his spangles, has forgotten his overalls. This primitive toilette of the non-Roman races,[95] which gave birth to our civilised attire, still lingers in parts of Europe, notably in the Cicería of Istria, where the charcoal-burners (Cici) will adopt no other costume. And what can be more ridiculous than the Hungarian footsoldier wearing his drawers, when we know the wide Turkish Shalwar to be his national terminations?

“Reykir!”[96] ejaculated Páll, pointing triumphantly to a little yellow splotch on the far side of the broad valley. As we progressed towards the Reeks, we found the forage improving, and the soil becoming damper; this is commonly the case, because the western frontage enjoys the most sun. Of five springs clustered upon either bank of the little Varmá, the largest lies on the left, where Palagonite breccia forms the base of a ruddy spine, projected by the northern outliers of the Ingolfsfjall massif. The usual motley colours of a solfatara are set off by a more brilliant green than usual, and by a silver-tinted moss (Trichostomum canescens), which makes the turf-carpet feel soft as velvet.

Reykir is known as the Litlé Geysir, or “the Geysir in Ölfus.” In 1770 Uno Von Troil declared that it used to rise sixty to seventy perpendicular feet, in fact, as high as the Great Geysir of 1872, but that an earthquake, after cutting off a few feet (fifty-four to sixty), made it spout sideways. Nothing can be meaner than the modern display, and my companion compared it disadvantageously with that “furious fountain” of the guidebooks, the Sprudel of Carlsbad. The chief well to the north has built for itself a party-coloured mound like a nest of African termites, and puffs only vapour with the sumph of a donkey-engine. A hundred yards or so to the south is a younger spring with double boilers, in which the water may rise at times a foot and a half high: the “hell broth” slithers through a soft and soppy circle, down a foul channel of burnt pyrites and silica-clothed trap to the bubbling Varmá. This stream shows from a height, three branches draining from the north-west, where are other sulphur springs.

A whole generation of travellers has complained of the farmer of Beykir, who is said to have charged one man $52 per diem. We can only speak of him as we found him; his demand for forage was extremely moderate, and we attributed the fact to having an honest and thrifty guide.

A swampy ride in the afternoon led to the ferry of the Ölfusá or lower Hvitá. The ground was spangled with Fífa or cotton grass (Eriophorum), a weed with a bad name. It is more common here than in the southern islands, Scotland, and Germany, and it is supposed to haunt the worst and most dangerous bogs, where water sinks instead of flowing. “Avoid cotton grass ground” is the advice of every traveller: unfortunately you cannot, and you must make the best of it. But why call it the “treacherous cotton grass,” when it at once tells you the worst? On the other hand, buck-bean (Hor-blaka, or Menyanthes trifoliata) is praised because it shows the surface to be safe.

After three hours we reached the ferry, a busy scene for Iceland. Caravans charged with imported boards and fish to be exported, lay unloaded on either bank. Amongst the travellers was the Bishop of Iceland with a party of six; he had ridden from Reykjavik to Reykir in nine hours, and as he sat waterproof’d in the sun, he complained sadly of fatigue. A couple of two-oared boats, big and small, with a third high and dry, did not tend to expedite transit—nothing would be easier than to establish a wire rope and a ferry with lee-boards, thus making the current do all the work.

Rain threatened, and we lodged, as Abyssinians might lodge, in the church of Laugadælir, after duly admiring the farmer’s chef d’œuvre, a brass chandelier. All was very grotesque; the Psalms were chalked up on the wall, a Mambrino’s helmet acted font, and the altar-piece showed bow-legged Mattheus, with Marcus, Lucus, and Johannes to match. Around the fane lay the churchyard, where the peasant

It was the usual reverse of gardenesque or picturesque. Sheep grazed upon the weeds that “had no business there,” and the railings were utilised for drying socks and small-clothes.

The fourth march proved peculiarly unpleasant. When the weather is bad at Reykjavik, here it is detestable. The display of water-works seemed the effort of the old Polynesian giants, who submerged the greater part of earth—Terrible-rain, Long-continued-rain, Fierce-hailstorm, and their progeny, Mist, Heavy-dew, and Light-dew. In plain English it was a “jolly wet day.” The horses very sensibly bolted up stream, and refused to be caught till noon, when the men returned dripping as loons or roaches. The delta of the two great streams is said to be, in fine weather, one of the fairest pastoral scenes the island can show; but we saw it at its worst, sadly deformed, and we gathered practical experience of what a few hours of downfall can do in this semi-saturated region. The paths were “dead,” or rather, they were shown only by lines of puddle; the sloughs and quagmires admitted our ponies to the hocks; the drains overflowed like little hill-races, and the labour of rounding the deeper fens was immense. A few peaks which lay but a little distance to the north seemed immeasurably removed, like

About mid-afternoon we came upon the Thjórsá, “fluviorum rex Eridanus” of Iceland: even at this upper part it looked like an estuary, split by sandbars, piles of basalt, sandbars and basalt again. We pushed hard over the few good places; and moist, mouldy, and malcontent, we were right glad to find ourselves in the strangers’ room of the ferryman’s house: 20 feet long by 14 broad and 7 high: dated 1848, it was an omnium gatherum of the family goods, and it boasted of one four-paned window, which has never opened, and which never will. The features denoting wealth were huge wooden lockers, like seamen’s chests, of bright colours, painted with flowers and arabesques of still brighter tints: I could not but remember the pea-green and gamboge box which carried to Meccah the drugs of a certain “Haji Abdullah.” The soiree ended with a distressing banality. Fair visions of girls who kiss the stranger on the mouth, who relieve him of his terminal garments, and who place a brandy bottle under his pillow, and a bowl of milk or cream by his side, where are ye? Icelanders have allowed their pleasant primitive fashions to be laughed away by the jeering stranger, who little thought how much the custom told in favour of the hosts. The naïve modesty of antiquity, when Nestor’s youngest daughter laved, anointed, and dressed Telemachus, and when the maids of Penelope had a less pleasant task with the elderly Ulysses, has departed with the public bathings, in angelic attire, of Iceland, of Sind, and of Japan, and the kiss given to the guest by the young wife or the eldest daughter of the Morlacchi house. This sublime impudeur was possible only amongst a pure race: the sneers of a single civilised savage suffice to demolish this “heureuse absence du ‘schoking.’”

Next morning, while the horses were grazing, we ascertained that the farm had its therma: a jet of steam issuing from the ground near the river had been turfed over, with room to stand; and thus a Turkish, or rather a Russian, bath was possible on bath-day. We then walked down to the Thjórsá, an especially grisly spectacle. Its breadth, 250 yards, was occupied by white glacier water, with a sulphury tinge, rendered more ghastly by the black sand, rocks, and islets studding the bed above and below the ferry. The right bank showed a wall of conglomerate, and on both sides “cachociras” dashing over the stones gave pleasant reminiscences of San Francisco. The left bank is of Hekla lava, either compact or very porous containing crystals of lime. We found a natural hatchet and quantities of pumice, many-coloured, but mostly yellow: it floats in water, and it is useful for holystoning the skin. The velocity was three knots, and the temperature 52° (F). The ferry creeps up from the stone-head acting pier on the right bank, swings across below the break, and lands you in water on the far side.

The conduct of ponies at the ferry is always amusing. They are driven in by the shouts of lads and lasses, by tossings and wavings of the arms, by sticks and stones, and by the barking and biting of curs. They sidle, jostle, step in daintily, smell the water, and, after trembling on the brink for a time, some plucky little nag takes the lead. He is followed by the ruck, but there are often cowards ready to hark back: these must be forced on with renewal of stick and stone, and by driving those that have crossed up and down the bank. In dangerous narrow beds, it is often necessary to tow over shirkers one by one with a rope. The swimmers gallantly breast the flood, which breaks upon their crests; and they paddle with heads always up stream, dilated eyes and nostrils snorting like young hippopotami; the best always carry the back high. As they reach the far end, they wade slowly to shore, and fall at once to grazing. They took four minutes thirty seconds to cross the Thjórsá, and as usual they were drifted far down.

We then pricked fast over the little pampa which lies between the Thjórsá and the Hekla-foot, making, I know not why, for Stóruvellir. Here we were received by Síra Guðmundr Jónsson, a gentlemanly man, who has accompanied several travellers, notably the “Oxonian,” up the volcano; he showed the Iceland peculiarity of “walking the quarter-deck;” and his handsome blue-eyed daughter wore the sternest of looks, apparently engendered by semi-solitude. He indulged in wild archery about the dangers of the climb, which, over biscuits and coffee, sounded truly awful. After leaving the parsonage, we enjoyed our first fair view of Hekla: during the earlier ride it had been buried in clouds, and hidden by the chapel block, Skarðfjall.

The Hekla of our ingenuous childhood, when we believed in the “Seven Wonders of the World,” was a mighty cone, a “pillar of heaven,” upon whose dreadful summit white, black, and sanguine red lay in streaks and patches, with volumes of sooty smoke and lurid flames, and a pitchy sky. The whole was somewhat like the impossible illustrations of Vesuvian eruptions, in body-colours, plus the ice proper to Iceland. The Hekla of reality, No. 5 in the island scale,[97] is a commonplace heap, half the height of Hermon, and a mere pigmy compared with the Andine peaks, rising detached from the plains; about three and a half miles in circumference, backed by the snows of Tindafjall and Torfajökull, and supporting a sky-line that varies greatly with the angle under which it is seen. Travellers usually make it a three-horned Parnassus, with the central knob highest—which is not really the case. From the south-west, it shows now four, then five, distinct points; the north-western lip of the northern crater, which hides the true apex; the south-western lip of the same; the north-eastern lip of the southern crater, which appears the culminating point, and the two eastern edges of the southern bowls. A pair of white patches represents the “eternal snows.” On the right of the picture is the steep, but utterly unimportant, Thríhyrningr, crowned with its bench-mark; to the left, the Skarðsfjall, variegated green and black; and in the centre, the Bjólfell, a western buttress of the main building, which becomes alternately a saddleback, a dorsum, and an elephant’s head, trunk, and shoulders.

We came upon the valley of the Western Rángá[98] at a rough point, a gash in the hard yellow turf-clad clay, dotted with rough lava blocks, and with masses of conglomerate, hollowed, turned, and polished by water: the shape was a succession of S, and the left side was the more tormented. Above the ford a dwarf cascade had been formed by the lava of ’45, which caused the waters to boil, and below the ford jumped a second, where the stream forks. We then entered an Iceland “forest,” at least four feet high; the “chapparal” was composed of red willow (Salix purpurea), of Grá-viðir, woolly-leaved willow (Salix lapponum),[99] the “tree under which the Devil flayed the goats”—a diabolical difficulty, when the bush is a foot high—and the awful and venerable birch,[100] “la demoiselle des fôrets,” which has so often “blushed with patrician blood.” About mid-afternoon we reached Næfrholt (birch-bark hill),[101] the “fashionable” place for the ascent, and we at once inquired for the guide. Upon the carpe diem principle, he had gone to Reykjavik with the view of drinking his late gains; but we had time to organise another, and even alpenstocks with rings and spikes are to be found at the farm-house. Everything was painfully tourist.

In the evening we scaled the stiff slope of earth and Palagonite which lies behind, or east of, Næfrholt: this crupper of Bjólfell, the Elephant Mountain, gives perhaps harder work than any part of Hekla on the normal line of ascent. From the summit we looked down upon a dwarf basin, with a lakelet of fresh water, which had a slightly (carbonic) acid taste, and which must have contained lime, as we found two kinds of shells, both uncommonly thin and fragile. Three species of weeds floated off the clean sandstrips. Walking northwards to a deserted byre, we found the drain gushing under ground from sand and rock, forming a distinct river-valley, and eventually feeding the Western Rángá. This “Vatn” is not in the map; though far from certain that it is not mentioned by Mackenzie, we named it the “Unknown Lake.” Before night fell we received a message that three English girls and their party proposed to join us. This was a “scare,” but happily the Miss Hopes proved plucky as they were young and pretty, and we rejoiced in offering this pleasant affront of the feminine foot to that grim old solitaire, Father Hekla.

Before the sleep necessary to prepare for the next day’s work, I will offer a few words concerning the “Etna of the North,” sparing the reader, however, the mortification of a regular history. It was apparently harmless, possibly dormant, till A.D. 1104, when Sæmund, the “Paris clerk,” then forty-eight years old, threw in a casket, and awoke the sleeping lion. Since that time fourteen regular eruptions, without including partial outbreaks, are recorded, giving an average of about two per century. The last was in 1845. The air at Reykjavik was flavoured, it is said, like a gun that wants washing; and the sounds of a distant battle were conducted by the lava and basaltic ground. The ashes extended to Scotland. When some writers tell us that on this occasion Hekla lost 500 feet in height, “so much of the summit having been blown away by the explosions,” they forget or ignore the fact that the new crater opened laterally, and low down.

Like Etna, Vesuvius, and especially Stromboli, Hekla became mythical in Middle-Age Europe, and gained wide repute as one of the gates of “Hel-viti.” Witches’ Sabbaths were held there. The spirits of the wicked, driven by those grotesque demons of Father Pinamonti which would make the fortune of a Zoological Society, were seen trooping into the infernal crater; and such facts as these do not readily slip off the mind of man. The Danes still say, “Begone to Heckenfjæld!” the North Germans, “Go to Hackelberg!” and the Scotch consign you to “John Hacklebirnie’s house.” Even Goldsmith (Animated Nature, i. 48) had heard of the local creed, “The inhabitants of Iceland believe the bellowings of Hecla are nothing else but the cries of the damned, and that its eruptions are contrived to increase their tortures.” Uno Von Troil (Letter I.), who in 1770, together with those “inclyti Brittanici,” Baron Bank and Dr Solander, “gained the pleasure of being the first who ever reached the summit of this celebrated volcano,” attributes the mountain’s virginity to the superstitions of the people. He writes soberly about its marvels; and he explains its high fame by its position, skirting the watery way to and from Greenland and North America. His companions show less modesty of imagination. We may concede that an unknown ascent “required great circumspection;” and that in a high wind ascensionists were obliged to lie down. But how explain the “dread of being blown into the most dreadful precipices,” when the latter do not exist? Moreover, we learn that to “accomplish this undertaking” they had to travel from 300 to 360 miles over uninterrupted bursts of lava, which is more than the maximum length of the island, from north-east to south-west. As will be seen, modern travellers have followed suit passing well.

The next morning (July 13) broke fair and calm, reminding me

The Miss Hopes were punctual to a minute—an excellent thing in travelling womanhood. We rode up half-way somewhat surprised to find so few parasitic craters; the only signs of independent eruption on the western flank were the Rauðhólar (red hills), as the people call their lava hornitos and spiracles, which are little bigger than the bottle-house cones of Leith.

At an impassable divide we left our poor nags to pass the dreary time, without water or forage, and we followed the improvised guide, who caused not a little amusement. His general port was that of a bear that has lost its ragged staff—I took away his alpenstock for one of the girls—and he was plantigrade rather than cremnobatic: he had stripped to his underalls, which were very short, whilst his stockings were very long, and the heraldic gloves converted his hands to paws. The two little snow fonds (“steep glassy slopes of hard snow”) were the easiest of walking. We had nerved ourselves to

but we looked in vain for the “concealed abysses,” for the “crevasses to be crossed,” and for places where “a slip would be to roll to destruction.” We did not sight the “lava wall, a capital protection against giddiness.” The snow was anything but slippery; the surface was scattered with dust, and it bristled with a forest of dwarf earth-pillars, where blown volcanic sand preserved the ice. After a slow hour and a half we reached the crater of ’45, which opened at nine A.M. on September 2, and discharged lava till the end of November. It might be passed unobserved by an unexperienced man. The only remnant is the upper lip prolonged to the right; the dimensions may have been 120 by 150 yards, and the cleft shows a projecting ice-ledge ready to fall. The feature is well marked by the new lava-field of which it is the source: the bristly “stone-river” is already degrading to superficial dust. A little beyond this bowl the ground smokes, discharging snow-steam made visible by the cold air. Hence doubtless those sententious old travellers “experienced, at one and the same time, a high degree of heat and cold.”

Fifteen minutes more led us to the First or Southern Crater, whose Ol-bogi (elbow or rim) is one of the horns conspicuous from below. It is a regular formation about 100 yards at the bottom each way, with the right (east) side red and cindery, and the left yellow and sulphury; mosses and a few flowerets grow on the lips; in the sole rise jets of steam, and a rock-rib bisects it diagonally from north-east to south-west. We thought the former the highest point of the volcano, but the aneroid corrected our mistake.

From First Crater we walked over the left or western dorsum, over which one could drive a coach, and we congratulated one another upon the exploit. Former travellers, “balancing themselves like rope dancers, succeeded in passing along the ridge of slags which was so narrow that there was scarcely room for their feet,” the breadth being “not more than two feet, having a precipice on each side several hundred feet of depth.” Charity suggests that the feature has altered, but there was no eruption between 1766 and 1845; moreover, the lip would have diminished, not increased. And one of the most modern visitors repeats the “very narrow ridge,” with the classical but incorrect adjuncts of “Scylla here, Charybdis there.” Scylla (say the crater slope) is disposed at an angle of 30°, and Mr Chapman coolly walked down this “vast” little hollow. I descended Charybdis (the outer counterscarp) far enough to make sure that it is equally easy.

Passing the “carriage road” (our own name), we crossed a névé without any necessity for digging foot-holes. It lies where sulphur is notably absent. The hot patches which account for the freedom from snow, even so high above the congelation-line, are scattered about the summit: in other parts the thermometer, placed in an 18-inch hole, made earth colder than air. After a short climb we reached the apex; the ruddy-walled north-eastern lip of the Red Crater (No. 2): its lower or western rim forms two of the five summits seen from the prairie, and hides the highest point. We thus ascertained that Hekla is a linear volcano of two mouths, or three including that of ’45, and that it wants a true apical crater. But how reconcile the accounts of travellers? Pliny Miles found one cone and three craters; Madame Ida Pfeiffer, like Metcalfe, three cones and no crater.

On the summit the guides sang a song of triumph, whilst we drank to the health of our charming companions and, despite the cold wind which eventually drove us down, carefully studied the extensive view. The glorious day was out of character with a scene niente che montagne, as the unhappy Venetian described the Morea; rain and sleet and blinding snow would better have suited the picture, but happily they were conspicuous by their absence. Inland, beyond a steep snow-bed unpleasantly crevassed, lay a grim photograph all black and white; Lángjökull looking down upon us with a grand and freezing stare; the Hrafntinnu Valley marked by a dwarf cone, and beyond where streams head, the gloomy regions stretching to the Sprengisandur, dreary wastes of utter sterility, howling deserts of dark ashes, wholly lacking water and vegetable life, and wanting the gleam and the glow which light up the Arabian wild. Skaptár and Öræfa were hidden from sight. Seawards, ranging from west to south, the view, by contrast, was a picture of amenity and civilisation. Beyond castellated Hljóðfell and conical Skjaldbreið appeared the familiar forms of Esja, and the long lava projection of the Gold Breast country, melting into the western main. Nearer stretched the fair lowlands, once a broad deep bay, now traversed by the network of Ölfusá, Thjórsá, and the Markarfljót; while the sixfold bunch of the Westman Islands, mere stone lumps upon a blue ground, seemingly floating far below the raised horizon, lay crowned by summer sea. Eastward we distinctly traced the Fiskivötn.[102] Run the eye along the southern shore, and again the scene shifts. Below the red hornitos of the slope rises the classical Three-horned, not lofty, but remarkable for its trident top; Tindfjall (tooth-fell) with its two horns, or pyramids of ice, casting blue shadows upon the untrodden snow; and the whole mighty mass known as the Eastern Jökull, Eyjafjall (island-fell), so called from the black button of rock which crowns the long white dorsum; Kátlá (Kötlu-gjá), Merkrjökull, and Goðalands, all connected by ridges, and apparently neither lofty nor impracticable.[103] I venture to predict that they will succumb to the first well organised attack.

The descent, in three hours, was as fast as the ascent had been slow. We soon saw the last of our fair companions who, mounted and attended by their train, rode gallantly back to Stóruvellir. Amongst the party was Síra Guðmundr’s son, a sharp youth of eighteen, and if there was not something under his waistcoat buttons which was beating at an accelerated pace, I am much mistaken. We felt demoralised by this unusual dissipation; we cooled our blood with Skyr; we bathed in the Lavapés, and we tried throwing a line, but came back with a hook behind, as the people say.

The reader will probably determine that this account of Hekla is a trifle hypercritical. But after a single day spent upon the volcano, which has so often been ascended, what can man find to explore except the labours of his predecessors? Nor would it be fair to leave unnoticed this excellent specimen of exaggerated writing upon the subject of Thule, which perhaps culminates on Hekla.

Section III.—To Geysir, and at It.

I would willingly have spent another day on Hekla, but the seething hot morning (82° F., at nine A.M.) had animated the flies with a more than normal “cussedness.” The scene was unusually “Arcadian.” Betimes the dogs folded the ewes with loud barkings, re-echoed by the backing ridge; and mother and daughters went to milk them, the “help” carrying a pair of pails fended by a square hoop. Meanwhile the lads drove the cows towards the womankind, and accompanied the horses to pasture. Even the hyæna-striped cats, bastard tortoise-shells, crept towards the fields, as if intent on grasshopper-hunting. About the house hung only the mankind, too dignified for labour; and the grandmother here is, like the grandfather, an institution; the bearded, mustachioed “old soldier,” with huge fez and hair cut boy-fashion, wanted to “swop” with us for spirits: all the males, middle-aged or old—the latter plutôt vieillis que vieux—appeared cut in the same pattern. Their necks were swathed as if lately recovering from diphtheria; their coarse heavy limbs were displayed by the flannel “tights;” their unshaven faces with loose lips, open mouths, and noses embrowned by preeing the sneeshing-mull, looked stolid enough when blear-eyed; when not so the hard optics had a cunning rat-like expression, showing that abundant selbstgefühl and a strong brain lie behind that unpromising mask. Such in some points was, in days we have read of, the rude Carinthian boor, now most polished of peasants.

This day’s march, between Hekla and the Geysir, is one of the most unpleasant in civilised Iceland. Travellers going eastward complain of it, and we found it worse for horse and rider, as the progress was from good to bad. A clerical friend subsequently divided the iter into three: between Næfrholt and the Thjórsá it was “bonum,” “mediocre” from the river to Hruni, and thence to the end “malum”—“pessimum.” As it is Sunday, the ferry lacks ferryman, and delays us for some time. The peasants are all endimanchés, and they stare at the stranger, expecting him to bow first. The Brazilian Caipira bends to the best mule, the Styrian to the black coat, but these men have no standard, and a rough nod is the extent of their recognition. They remind me much of what was said about the Siebenburgers of Transylvania: “The people are shrewd and intelligent, and, thanks to the national custom, they possess a fair amount of knowledge. But the peasant’s demeanour imposes at first, and all would be adelig. After this it rather tells against him than otherwise, for when you come to measure him, you involuntarily do so by a higher scale than you would apply to another in his position of life. Then, if you find discrepancies, you are apt to judge him over severely, but this is partly his own fault, for it was solely his air and manner which caused you to apply the standard you have chosen.” On the other hand, the unpromising figure that rides by with a glare in Iceland may be a man of substance, possibly even a vestryman.

We saw Hekla more than once on both sides of the Thjórsá, and now, aided by experience, we could explain the varying of the apices. About mid-afternoon we came upon the Laxá, for which Páll condescended to make certain preparations. An old man mumbled some directions about the ford, but they were utterly unintelligible. A mark persuaded a barefooted woman to leave the house: after spitting, as did the gentlemen of Beaux before they drank, she led the way, knitting and talking at least a quarter of an hour, to impress upon us the necessity of making for that rock. Crossing the broad bed was quite easy, and the view was unusually picturesque. The goodly stream was girt on both sides by spoil banks of red and white earth, suggesting hot springs; there were green side-gorges ready for homesteads, and the upper part was a rugged brown ravine, somewhat like what may be seen on the higher Arno.

After fording we rode up to the Sólheimar farm, a large and comfortable establishment; its approach was the usual avenue which wants ditches and drains instead of turf walls. The churlish owner detained us till the horses were strung together and sent, under the charge of his son, outside the “tún.” He gave us some skimmed milk, and we paid him half-a-mark. The idea of a gentleman farmer, or even humble Giles, taking twopence for a glass of small beer!

We sat, after reaching Hruni, amongst the graves, which had just been utilised by mowing. Seeing our forlorn plight, the Prófastr, Síra Johann Brím or Briem, came out of his house, kindly greeted us in Latin, and did the honours of his little church. On the right of the entrance was the small library, containing the oldest Icelandic translation of the New Testament[104]—not bad pro pauperie nostrâ. Better still, he led us to his home and, enlarging upon the mal paso before us, he adhibited a most copious feed of Hvítá salmon, smoked beef, cheese, biscuits, and white bread, with golden sherry and sundry cups of café au lait. And as we mounted with many vales and gratias agimus, he insisted upon a final Hesta-skál (stirrup-cup) of distilled waters. I afterwards learned that we were not the only travellers whom the good Prófastr has sent on their way rejoicing: he extends a similar hospitality to all strangers.

Mightily refreshed, we looked forward with pleasure to the novelty of a really vile Iceland path, and to fording a river with a notably bad name. The line was certainly foul, a succession of ugly swamps: in this part of the island the meridional routes are good, not so those running east to west, and striking the streams at right angles. The Hvítá proved itself a barking dog; the muddy white water, like the discharge of a gutter, was split into six veins, and swashed round the sand-holms, bright with the island-rose. The worst were Nos. 1, 4, and 6, the latter nearest the right bank. Páll’s nag came to grief over a round stone, but he cleverly dismounted; and our stout little animals, now waxing sadly tired, mustered courage to spring goat-like up the steep side. In the Morea this Hvítá would be called Gaidaropnictis, or the donkey-drowner.

We travelled along the right-hand valley of the White Water, which here assumes a menacing, sinister aspect, and the frequent ferries, above and below the ford, prove that it can be really dangerous: when the spring-snows melt, the scene must be imposing. The current, like that of the Congo, boils and swirls through a deep gorge, a trough of perpendicular rocks which wholly ignore landing-places. A number of “old men” showed the desolation of the land, all gorges and dykes, and the sheep followed us, as young bisons do, for company’s sake. We remarked, for the first time, that the sun really set, and that in Iceland there is such a thing as a moon: this simulation of night without a dawn before one A.M. was comforting. Still in the brassy northern sky rose the weird forms of the Jarlhettur, the earl’s hats—and we wearily wondered who the hatter might have been. A tower and a rampart, jagged into a saw, form a castellated wall defending the south-eastern glacis of Lángjökull. About ten P.M. we fell into a long descent, clothed with birch forest, and we idly discussed how long it would take a rhinoceros to graze it down. Mr Bryson could not trace any birch or bush nearer than thirty miles from the Geysir: he might have found them within five miles to the west and seven to the east. A big column of white vapour on our right, and others scattered over the distance, again and again deluded us, and we neglected the real thing, two humble puffs, to the left or west.

A short colloquy at a farm-house made Páll sure of his direction, and he hurried us on to the goal through villainous bog and splashing streams. Disappointment at once awaited us. A large party of travellers had, we heard, pitched tents at the water-works, stubbornly resolved to wait an explosion. The hay, the firewood, the broken bottles, the scraps of newspaper, and the names fresh-graved upon the sintery saucer told their own tale: the Gusher had gushed, we afterwards learned, on the 13th, and might not gush again for a fortnight. In melancholy mood we pitched the “pal,” open towards the basin, and under the shadow as it were of the steam, which we could hear, see, feel, touch, and smell. The guide went off to sleep at Haukadalr (hawk dale), a farm dimly looming to the north; but the traveller is, to speak figuratively, tied by the leg, chained to the Geysir. Unless Fate favour him with a display, he can neither visit the home of Ari Fróði nor St Martin’s baths, whose miraculous cures of the lame and the leper have ceased with the child-like, trusting faith that caused them.

Once or twice during the remnant of the night we heard a growl, when