Besides the lengthy _Sagas_ there are numerous shorter stories that have been preserved in written form such as that of _Gisli_, the Outlaw; _Grettir_, the Strong and _Glum_. It is a knowledge of the _Sagas_ and the legends that spread the charm over this valley, that leads one from the present to the past by a jump backwards of many centuries. To visit Iceland, especially the _Saga Dales_, in ignorance of their history would be like tramping through Scotland without any acquaintance with Sir Walter Scott, or a sojourn in London without a knowledge of Dickens. In most countries the progress of modern life, with its inventions and the eternal scramble for the latest style in everything, has obliterated much if not all of the past and one can only obtain the colors of the former ages in the ruins of a castle or cathedral or from the written pages of the antiquary. Not so in Iceland,—farms, mountains, rivers, lakes and meadows remain the same and under the same names given to them by the first settlers, though it be ten centuries of time. No railway or canal, no public improvements, modern cities or factories have obliterated the ancient landmarks. Even the manners and dress of the people are little changed from that early day. On the ruins of the tumbled-down hut of his grandfather the grandson erects his house in the same fashion and the descendants of the first imported sheep furnish skins for shoes still tanned, cut and fashioned after the ancient model. To visit the remote dales of Iceland is to be set backward in history and fashions a thousand years. The _Waterdale Saga_ tells us how _Ingmundr_, a grand old Viking, after years of sea-roving and plundering along the shores of the southern seas settled in this valley with his followers. He had made a vow that no matter where he might roam that Norway should always remain his home. The witches of Finland prophesied that Iceland would be his resting place and so it was. At the farm called _Hof_, Temple, one may still trace the position of his great _Scali_, Banquet Hall, and there beside it winds the river where the old man lost his life. He had promised protection to a renegade who treacherously slew his benefactor. _Ingmundr_ went to his high seat in the hall after the blow, wrapped his cloak around him and died alone. His grandson, _Ingólfr_, was “the handsomest man in all the northern lands.” Here is a song written about him over 800 years ago by a little maiden who admired him:— “All the pretty maidens Wish to dance with Ingólfr; All the grown-up damsels. Woe’s me, I’m too little! ‘I too,’ said the Carline, ‘I will go with Ingólfr While a tooth is left me, While I’ve strength to hobble.’” _Trans. by Miss Oswald._