We rode directly toward the Great Geyser, which we approached within about fifty yards. Here was the camping-ground—a pleasant little patch of green sod, where the various travelers who had preceded us had pitched their tents. Zöega knew every spot. He had accompanied most of the distinguished gentlemen who had honored the place with their presence, and had something to say in his grave, simple way about each of them. Here stood Lord Dufferin’s tent. A lively young gentleman he was; a very nice young man; told some queer stories about the Icelanders; didn’t see much of the country, but made a very nice book about what he saw; had a great time at the governor’s, and drank every body drunk under the table, etc. Here, close by, the Prince Napoleon pitched his tent—a large tent, very handsomely decorated; room for all his officers; very fine gentleman the prince; had lots of money; drank plenty of Champagne; a fat gentleman, not very tall; had blackish hair, and talked French; didn’t see the Great Geyser go up, but saw the Strokhr, etc. Here was Mr. Metcalfe’s tent; a queer gentleman, Mr. Metcalfe; rather rough in his dress; wrote a funny book about Iceland; told some hard things on the priests; they didn’t like it at all; didn’t know what to make of Mr. Metcalfe, etc. Here was Mr. Chambers’s camp—a Scotch gentleman; very nice man, plain and sensible; wrote a pamphlet, etc. And here was an old tent-mark, almost rubbed out, where an American gentleman camped about ten years ago; thought his name was Mr. Miles. This traveler also wrote a book, and told some funny stories.
“Was it Pliny Miles?” I asked.
“Yes, sir, that was his name. I was with him all the time.”
“Have you his book?”
“Yes, sir, I have his book at home. A very queer gentleman, Mr. Miles; saw a great many things that I didn’t see; says he came near getting drowned in a river.”
“And didn’t he?”
“Well, sir, I don’t know. I didn’t see him when he was near being drowned. You crossed the river, sir, yourself, and know whether it is dangerous.”
“Was it the Brúará?”
“No, sir; one of the other little rivers, about knee-deep.”
Here was food for reflection. Zöega, with his matter-of-fact eyes, evidently saw things in an entirely different light from that in which they presented themselves to the enthusiastic tourists who accompanied him. Perhaps he would some time or other be pointing out my tent to some inquisitive visitor, and giving him a running criticism upon my journal of experiences in Iceland. I deemed it judicious, therefore, to explain to him that gentlemen who traveled all the way to Iceland were bound to see something and meet with some thrilling adventures. If they didn’t tell of very remarkable things, nobody would care about reading their books. This was the great art of travel; it was not exactly lying, but putting on colors to give the picture effect.