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Updated: June 14, 2025
The repast, which was more Danish than Icelandic, was in itself nothing, but the excessive hospitality of our host made us enjoy it doubly. The conversation turned upon scientific matters, and M. Fridriksson asked my uncle what he thought of the public library. "Library, sir?" cried my uncle; "it appears to me a collection of useless odd volumes, and a beggarly amount of empty shelves."
His absence was, however, more than compensated by the presence of M. Fridriksson, professor of natural science in the college of Reykjavik, a man of invaluable ability. This modest scholar spoke no languages save Icelandic and Latin. When, therefore, he addressed himself to me in the language of Horace, we at once came to understand one another.
The ship and its inmates, Iceland, M. Fridriksson, and the great summit of Mount Sneffels! I said to myself that, if in my position I retained the most faint and shadowy outline of a hope, it would be a sure sign of approaching delirium. It were better to give way wholly to despair!
"No! no, I was carried away by my enthusiasm. A mere supposition." "Very good, sir. But, really, to turn to another subject, I hope you will not leave our island without examining into its mineralogical riches." "Well, the fact is, I am rather late. So many learned men have been here before me." "Yes, yes, but there is still much to be done," cried M. Fridriksson.
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