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Updated: June 14, 2025
"A wonderful country, sir!" "Would you like to go there, Zoega?" "No, sir; I'd rather stay here." And so we talked, Zoega and I, as we jogged along pleasantly on our way.
A remote suspicion flashed across my mind that Zoega was in league with some of those water-spirits which are said to infest the rivers of Iceland. Wondering what they would say to a live Californian, I plunged in and followed the route taken by my guide.
"No wonder," said Zoega, "this man told a great many lies about them, and laughed at them for refusing money, when the truth was he never offered them money or any thing else. It was certainly a very cheap way of traveling." "But what about the pastor, Zoega? I'm certain I caught a glimpse of him as he darted behind the door." "Oh, he'll be here directly; he always runs away when strangers come."
While I waited outside the pastor's house, enjoying the oddity of the scene, Zoega busied himself unsaddling the horses. I sat down on a pile of fagots, and, with some trouble and a little assistance from my guide, succeeded in getting off my overalls, which had been thoroughly drenched with rain and saturated with mud.
This I readily granted. It was something of a novelty to be left in charge of two such distinguished characters as the Great Geyser and the Strokhr. Possibly they might favor me with some extraordinary freaks of humor, such as no other traveler had yet enjoyed. So, bidding Zoega a kindly farewell for the present, I closed the front of the tent, and tried to persuade myself that it was night.
Even the man to whom all paid homage, the illustrious Canova, started, and exclaimed: "Quest' opera di quel giovane Danese è fatta in uno stilo nuovo, e grandioso!" Zoega smiled. "It is bravely done!" said he. The Danish songstress, Frederikke Brunn, was then in Rome and sang enthusiastically about Thorwaldsen's "Jason."
Zoega, 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.
"For my part, Zoega," said I, "having no great skill as an artist, and being a very plain, unimaginative man, as you know, I shall confine myself strictly to facts. Perhaps there will be novelty enough in telling the truth to attract attention." "The truth is always the best, sir," replied Zoega, gravely and piously. "Of course it is, Zoega. This country is sufficiently curious in itself.
With an awkward shuffling gait he approached us, and, having shaken hands with Zoega, looked askant at me, and said something, which my guide interpreted as follows: "He bids you welcome, sir, and says his house is at your service. It is a very poor house, but it is the best he has. He wishes to know if you will take some coffee, and asks what part of the world you are from.
Stealing away quietly, so that Zoega might not see him at the start, he would suddenly dart off after the poor animals, with his shaggy hair all erect, and never stop barking, snapping, and biting their legs till they were scattered over miles of territory.
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