We drank and ate; and he took me through his house, showed me his library, his sleeping rooms, his handsome wife, and several rosy-cheeked, well-dressed children. He showed me an octavo volume, the journal of their Althing or Assembly; and I saw his name among the national legislators, where he had figured as a statesman. He took down from his library a life of Lord Byron, in Danish, with portraits, and extracts from his works in English and translated, and, writing my name in it, gave it to me.[[5]]
Meantime, the liquor seemed to improve him. He gradually grew mellow; was first kind, then cordial, then sociable, then talkative, then argumentative, then jolly, then affectionate, then drunk—or at least rather “how come you so?” We walked out doors, and saw his people building hay-stacks. It was a beautiful approaching sunset. I ran and jumped on to a half-finished stack, to see how it was formed; but I came off again pretty quick, and found I had a small brick in my hat! No matter, however, considering the day’s travel was over. The guide, though, didn’t take the saddles off, and only opened one of the trunks to get a book I wished to show the sysselman. It seemed barely possible we were not to stay all night here, after all. In fact, he hadn’t asked me to stay. He would not have had to ask me but once. Our friend in the clerical garb became very merry too. He made signs of departure, but seemed waiting for me. Was it possible we were not to stay all night at the sysselman’s? The guide had all day told me we should. But the fact began to stare me in the face: so did a very extensive bog meadow, directly to the west. But the sysselman didn’t ask me to stay all night. I wished he had. But he didn’t. And our horses were led to the door, and the saddles adjusted, and every thing got ready; and we mounted and rode off. The jolly, clerical-looking chap accompanied us; though he was no clergyman at all, but a drunken ferry-man, who lived on a river a long way to the west. He was to be our guide over the interesting bogs, to some very nice caravansera, no doubt; but where it could be, I neither knew nor did I inquire. We left—we did—and I gave my kind entertainer a very affectionate and cordial good-night. He is a merry, hospitable, good fellow, I am sure; but I didn’t repose under his eider-down.
Our ride was a cheering one—in a horn! And miles we traveled, and—and—and—wait till the next chapter, and we’ll see what.
FOOTNOTES:
[5]. The presentation read thus: “Til Herre Pliny Miles, Raburky, fra New York; erkjendtligst fra Th. Gudmundsen, Sysselmandi, Arnes Sysla, 30 Juli, 1852.”
CHAPTER XV
Our indiscretion sometimes serves us well,
When our deep plots do pall; and that should teach us
There’s a divinity that shapes our ends,