Marched well for one of such obesity.”
About ten miles from Thingvalla we came to a house, a solitary caravansera in the desert. We concluded to patronize it, and halted; and while the ponies were contemplating the beauties of the mineralogical specimens that covered the ground, we took some refreshment. That is, those who indulge in the use of the weed that adorns the valleys of the land of Pocahontas, took a slight fumigation; but having some ham in my provision-chest, I did not wish to make smoked meat of myself then. So I pulled from my poke—look the other way, Father Mathew!—a “pocket-pistol,” and extracted a small charge! It was not loaded with any thing stronger than the products of the vineyards of France. The “hotel” was one story high; and, without trying to make much of a story about it, it had but one room, walls of lava, and minus the roof. It is needless to say, the hotel-keeper had stepped out. It had one piece of furniture, a wooden bench, and on the slight timbers that supported what had been a roof, were the names of sundry travelers. I took out my pencil, and in my boldest chirography wrote the illustrious name of—“JOHN SMITH!”
A few miles from our caravansera we came to the banks of the lake of Thingvalla, or, in Icelandic, “Thingvalla vatn.” This lake is about ten miles long, and the largest body of water in Iceland. It is of great depth, in some places over 1,000 feet deep. The town, or place, or what had been a place, is at the north end of the lake. Just before arriving there, while jogging along on the level ground, we came suddenly upon the brink of an immense chasm, 150 feet deep, and about the same in breadth. This was one of those seams or rents in the earth, common in Iceland; originally a crack in a bed of lava. Its precipitous sides and immense depth seemed at once a bar to our progress; and without a bridge over it, or ropes or wings, we saw no way of getting along without going round it. Without seeing either end, and wondering how we were to get round it, we were told we must go through it. And sure enough, and the animals, as well as the guides, seemed to understand it; and if we had kept in our saddles I actually believe they would have found their way down this almost perpendicular precipice. We, however, dismounted, and in a steep defile were shown a passage that much resembled the “Devil’s Staircase,” at the Pass of Glencoe, in the Highlands of Scotland. By picking and clambering our way down some pretty regular stairs—and our horses followed without our holding their bridles—we made our way to the bottom. There we found grass growing; and, while our ponies were feeding, we lay on the turf and admired this singular freak of nature. We were in the bottom of a deep chasm or defile, the wall on the west side being over a hundred feet high and on a level with the country back of it. The wall on the east side was lower, and beyond this wall the country was on a level with the bottom where we were. By walking a short distance to the north, in this singular defile, we found the wall on the east side broken down by a river that poured down the precipice from the west, and being thus imprisoned between two walls, it had thrown down the lowest one, and found its way into the Thingvalla lake. This chasm is called the Almannagjá (pronounced Al-man-a-gow), or “all men’s cave.” In former days, when the Althing, or Icelandic Congress, met at the place, all men of consequence, or nearly all, used to assemble here; and no doubt they admired this singular freak of nature. The river here, the Oxerá, in pouring over the precipice forms a most splendid cataract. Here is Thingvalla, a once important place, and, as I have mentioned, for nearly a thousand years the capital of the nation. It is now a mere farm, and contains two huts and a very small church. This church is on about the same scale of most of the churches in Iceland. It is a wooden building, about eighteen feet long by twelve wide, with a door less than five feet high. It is customary for the clergyman or farmer—and the owner of the land is often both—to store his provisions, boxes of clothing, dried fish, &c., in the church; and strangers in the country often sleep in the churches. Some travelers have made a great outcry about the desecration of turning a church into a hotel, but with all their squeamishness have usually fallen into the general custom. Surely if their tender consciences went against it, they had “all out doors” for a lodging place. I have not yet arrived at the honor of sleeping in a church, though I have slept out of doors; and when I have tried both, I will tell which I like best. A tent has been presented to the important “town” of Thingvalla, by the liberality of the French officers who visit the coast; and this was pitched for our use. The clergyman here—who is also farmer and fisherman—a pale, spare, intellectual-looking young man, received us very kindly. It was the haying season, and the ground was covered with the new-mown hay. Two of the working-men of the farm had that day been out on the lake, fishing in a small boat. They came to the shore as we rode up, and I had the curiosity to go and see what they had caught. And what had they? Who can guess? No one. Over two hundred and fifty fresh-water trout, all alive “and kicking.” They were large, handsome fellows, and would weigh from one to three pounds each. Not a fish that wouldn’t weigh over a pound. But didn’t I scream? “Oh, Captain Laborde! Rector Johnson! I say; come and see the fish. Speckled trout, more than two barrels-full.” Well, hang up my fish-hooks; I’ll never troll another line in Sandy Creek. The tent pitched, some trout dressed, and a fire built in the smithy, and we soon had a dinner cooking. And such a dinner! Well, say French naval officers on shore, Icelanders, Yankees, and Cosmopolites, can not enjoy life “in the tented field”! But this chapter is long enough, and I’ll tell about the dinner in my next.
CHAPTER V
——“he was a bachelor, * * *
* * * * and, though a lad,
Had seen the world, which is a curious sight,
And very much unlike what people write.”
HAD that celebrated Pope whose Christian name was Alexander, believed that his immortal Essay would have been translated into Icelandic verse by a native Icelander, and read throughout the country, he would not have vaulted clear over the volcanic isle in his enumeration of places at “the North.” And then, too, our poetical Pope is the only pontiff who has any admirers in this northern land. The last Catholic bishop of the country left few believers of that faith in the island.
Yesterday, under the canvas of an Iceland tent, a party was seated at dinner. It was on the bank of the Thingvalla vatn. The hospitable clergyman furnished us trout, and a good sportsman among the French officers produced several fine birds, plovers and curlews that he had shot on the way, often without leaving his horse. We had excellent milk and cream from the farm, and the packing-cases of the party furnished the balance of as good a dinner as hungry travelers ever sat down to. The Frenchmen—like those in the Peninsular war, who gathered vegetables to boil with their beef, rather than roast it alone as the English soldiers did theirs—our Frenchmen—gathered some plants, that looked to me very like dandelions, and dressed them with oil and vinegar for salad. Though it was rather a failure, it showed that an eye was open to the productions of the country, albeit it was not a perfect garden. I picked a bird for my share of the work—picked him clean, too, and his bones afterwards—and found it as good as a grouse or pheasant. With fine Iceland brushwood from a “forest” hard by, a fire was made in the blacksmith shop, and there we roasted fish, flesh, and fowl. As the rest of the party were to return the next day to Reykjavik, and as I had a long tour before me, they would not allow me to produce any thing towards the feast, but insisted on my dining with them. I was too old a traveler to refuse a good invitation, and accepted at once. The tent was pitched on a smooth plat of grass before the lake, and a quantity of new-mown hay, with our traveling blankets and saddles, made first-rate seats. I know not when I have enjoyed a dinner more than I did this. The Frenchmen conversed with their own tongues in their own language; some of the party spoke Danish, and several Icelandic; I gave them English—and every other language that I knew—the modest Iceland clergyman expressed himself in Latin, and Rector Johnson talked them all. Time flew by—as he always flies, the old bird!—while the big white loaves, the trout, the game-birds, the sardines, ham, and bottles of wine, disappeared rapidly. We drank, not deeply, to all the people in the world—kings and rulers excepted, for they always have enough to drink to their good health and long life; and we toasted, among others, “all travelers of every nation, and in all climes, whether on land or sea,” and hoped that none were “seeing the elephant” more extensively than we were. So passed our dinner. The clergyman was with us; and he appeared to enjoy the foreign luxuries, as we all enjoyed everything about us, viands, company, scenery, &c.