DIAGRAM OF THE LÖGBERG.
CHAPTER XLIX.
THE ROAD TO THE GEYSERS.
It was ten o’clock at night when I reached the parsonage. In addition to my rough ride from Reykjavik, and the various trying adventures on the way, I had walked over nearly the whole range of the Almannajau, sketched the principal points of interest, visited the Lögberg, and made some sketches and diagrams of that, besides accomplishing a considerable amount of work about the premises of the good pastor, all of which is now submitted to the kind indulgence of the reader. Surely if there is a country upon earth abounding in obstacles to the pursuit of the fine arts, it is Iceland. The climate is the most variable in existence—warm and cold, wet and dry by turns, seldom the same thing for half a day. Such, at least, was my experience in June. Wild and desolate scenery there is in abundance, and no lack of interesting objects any where for the pencil of an artist; but it is difficult to conceive the amount of physical discomfort that must be endured by one who faithfully adheres to his purpose. Only think of sitting down on a jagged piece of lava, wet to the skin and shivering with cold; a raw, drizzling rain running down your back and dropping from the brim of your hat, making rivers on your paper where none are intended to be; hints of rheumatism shooting through your bones, and visions of a solitary grave in the wilderness crossing your mind; then, of a sudden, a wind that scatters your papers far and wide, and sends your only hat whirling into an abyss from which it is doubtful whether you will ever recover it—think of these, ye summer tourists who wander, sketch-book in hand, through the “warbling woodland” and along “the resounding shore,” and talk about being enterprising followers of the fine arts! Try it in Iceland a while, and see how long your inspiration will last! Take my word for it, unless you be terribly in earnest, you will postpone your labors till the next day, and then the next, and so on to the day that never comes.
Not the least of my troubles was the difficulty of getting a good night’s rest after the fatiguing adventures of the day. There was no fault to be found with the bed, save that it was made for somebody who had never attained the average growth of an American; and one might do without a night-cap, but how in the world could any body be expected to sleep when there was no night? At twelve o’clock, when it ought to be midnight and the ghosts stirring about, I looked out, and it was broad day; at half past one I looked out again, and the sun was shining; at two I got up and tried to read some of the pastor’s books, which were written in Icelandic, and therefore not very entertaining; at three I went to work and finished some of my sketches; and at four I gave up all farther hope of sleeping, and sallied forth to take another look at the Almannajau.
AN ARTIST AT HOME.