The next morning (August 20) was also foggy: I waited till 8.45 A.M., and then all the munitions de bouche being thoroughly exhausted, the word was given for a retreat. The approach to Valthiófstaðir was perfumed, after the rancid moss and the hard snow-wind, by the fragrant crop of newly-mown hay. I bade friendly adieu to the family which had shown me so much kindness; to Stefán, who was still abed, and to Björn, the eldest son. A man of forty-six, and suffering from rheumatism, for which the parsonage is famous, he was the only Icelander who in physique realised my idea of a Saga-hero. The gentlemanly old-fashion parson put into my hands, when parting, an appeal which touched me, “Opto ubi de Islandiâ locutus estis, benè rem referere.”
My return-ride need not be described: it was over the same path, the only difference being the last half of the last day, which is noticed in Chapter XIII. At Hallormstaðir I again missed Síra Sigurðr, who appears not to be of a very domestic turn. Reaching the Berufjörð parsonage at 4.45 P.M. on August 21, I found the ponies far too much fagged by a day’s work of 5500 feet, up and down, for riding another twelve miles round the firth. The Reverend was absent from the Prestagarð, but his wife kindly found me a boat and a boat-boy, the student Thorsteinn taking the other oar. Progress was painfully slow, and the tall ghostly loom of Búlandstindr seemed to follow us like a “Fylgja,” or fetch. We enjoyed all the pleasures of l’humidité spéciale de l’eau de mer pulverisée; the bright phosphoric lights of the tropical seas were absent—indeed, I never saw them in Iceland. At this season the nights become real nights; the smooths in the water, alternating with ripple-lines, had no worse effect than to persuade the inexperienced lads that they were approaching land, and, as the skerries and drongs are thickly ranged along the southern shore, we were fortunate that there was no gale—
“Only the sea-fogs to and fro
Skipped like the ghosts of the streams below.”
After six hours of mortal weariness, I landed with feet dead from sitting in cold water, and awoke Captain Tvede. My good friend turned out of his bunk; the cooper put the kettle on; sundry glasses of red-hot toddy were administered medicinally; and I went to my old quarters, well satisfied with having ridden, from under the very shadow of the Vatnajökull, in two days to the eastern coast.
The “balance” of my stay at Djúpivogr would not have been pleasant without the Ancient Mariner, who energetically assisted in preparing my diary and in paying off the guides, a matter of $49. Hospitable Hr Weÿvadt’s son, the acting Syslumaðr, presently joined us from Eskifjörð, and lectured me upon taxation in Iceland which, as the reader has seen, is “no joke.” The only drawback was a certain nervousness touching the movements of the “Diana,” which was to touch at Deep Bay for the last time this season. Alternate fog and rain, with faint attempts at clearing about mid-day, had lasted for a week, and on August 24 the “Postdampskibet” was due. The seamist rolled thick as a bolster up the narrow line of Fjörð; I had almost abandoned hope, when suddenly we received the glad tidings of her being anchored at the mouth of the voe. Hurried adieux were exchanged, and we steamed for Reykjavik the same evening.
Rain and fog accompanied us the whole way; fortunately for me, Dr Hjaltalín was on board, returning from a visit to Denmark, or the lively “Diana” would have been a very purgatory of dullness. The rest of my tale is soon told. We made Reykjavik on the 26th. On September 1, I embarked on board an old friend, the “Jón Sigurðsson;” and steaming southwards cast a farewell view, while Iceland faded into the past, at the palegold and glittering silver of the Öræfajökull.
On September 15, I landed at Granton.
Conclusion.
The past has been very short-lived of late, says the Duc de Noailles: the world moves fast, and even