Several thousand years ago a mighty conflict occurred between the sea and the subterranean forces in the north Atlantic five hundred miles northwest of Scotland. A violent earthquake rent the rocks of the ocean bed, and through the broken floor there issued tremendous floods of molten lava. The great conflict manifested itself in explosions of steam, gigantic streams of red-hot lava, frothy pumice, and volcanic ashes. For miles around the water of the sea was seething and boiling.
After awhile the turbulence of the fiery mass was subdued and it stood congealed in the varied forms of rugged peaks, contorted ridges, and deep valleys, subsequently to be seamed and further distorted by earthquakes and piled higher by further volcanic outbursts. A new island had been born.
Ages rolled on; vegetation appeared as the volcanic rock disintegrated; crystal lakes were formed and rivers, fed by frequent rains and melting snows, flowed to the sea. This comparatively new island is Iceland. The book of nature here is open; the print is clear; and the language is so plain that he who can read may learn the story.
The internal fires of the earth seem to have taken their final great stand in this far-off northern land and have waged a titanic battle to the death, as may be seen in many places. In the northern part of the island one may find acres of burning sulphur beds, small geysers, and mud caldrons, all of which attest to the slowly dying volcanic forces beneath. Although a comparative calm now exists, an exciting cause may at any time awaken the slumbering volcanoes and again renew the work of destruction.
Fossilized forests are found, but of trees different from those now existing. Climate and vegetation materially changed as century succeeded century.
The written history of Iceland begins about the year 860, when a viking living on the Faroe Islands who was on his way home from Norway, being driven far northward of his course, came to an unknown coast. Climbing a high rock and looking around, he beheld no signs of life; before he could return to his ship, however, a sudden storm came on, covering the ground with a mantle of snow. From the latter circumstance he named the country Snowland.
Four years after a Swedish master-mariner was driven by stress of storm to this same land, and, building a house, spent the winter there. During the following summer he sailed around the land, demonstrating that it was an island, and called it after his own name, Gardar's Island. On his return home he gave such a favorable account of the island that a famous Norwegian viking named Floki determined to seek it and to take possession. Having gathered his family and followers, and taking on board some live stock, he set sail for the unknown land by way of the Faroe Islands.
The compass had not then been invented, but knowing that ravens by instinct seek the nearest land when freed on the ocean, he provided himself with three of these birds to serve as guides.
He remained awhile at the Faroe Islands and then boldly sailed northward. When he was several days out he uncaged one of the ravens, which immediately took its flight back to the Faroe Islands. Later, he set free a second bird. This one, after hovering high in the air for some time, seemed bewildered and returned to the ship. Still later, the third raven was set free, which at once flew northward. By pursuing the course taken by the last bird, Floki soon reached the desired land.
The winter that followed was very severe. Deep snows covered hill, rock, and valley, and ice blockaded the fiord. Floki had neglected to harvest the wild grass, and as a result his cattle died. Disheartened by his losses, he returned to his native land, naming the island which he abandoned Iceland.