File:Letters from high latitudes - being some account of a voyage, in 1856, in the schooner yacht "Foam", to Iceland, Jan Mayen, and Spitzbergen (1867) (14779741624).jpg

Identifier: 5thedlettersfrom00duffuoft (find matches)
Title: Letters from high latitudes : being some account of a voyage, in 1856, in the schooner yacht "Foam", to Iceland, Jan Mayen, and Spitzbergen
Year: 1867 (1860s)
Authors: Dufferin and Ava, Frederick Temple Blackwood, Marquis of, 1826-1902
Subjects: Iceland -- Description and travel Spitsbergen Island (Norway)
Publisher: London, Murray
Contributing Library: Robarts - University of Toronto
Digitizing Sponsor: MSN

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icious whiffs occasionally permeated. Olaf and his comrades had driven off the horses to their pastures; and Sigurdr and I were deep in a game of chess. Luckily, the shower, which threatened us a moment, had blown over. Though now almost nine o'clock p.m., it was as bright as mid-day; the sky burned like a dome of gold, and silence and deep peace brooded over the fair grass-robed plain, that once had been so fearfully convulsed. You may be quite sure our dinner went off merrily; the tetanus-afflicted salmon proved excellent, the plover and ptarmigan were done to a turn, the mulligatawny beyond all praise; but, alas ! I regret to add, that he—the artist, by whose skill these triumphs had been achieved—his task accomplished,—no longer sustained by the factitious energy resulting from his professional enthusiasm, at last succumbed, and, retiring to the recesses of his tent, like Psyche in the Princess, lay down, and neither spoke nor stirred. After another game or two of chess, a pleasant chat, a
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72 LETTERS FROM HIGH LATITUDES. (VII. gentle stroll, we also turned in; and for the next eight hours perfect silence reigned throughout our little encampment, except when Wilson's sob-like snores shook to their foundation the canvas walls that sheltered him. When I awoke—I do not know at what hour, for from this time we kept no account of day or night—the white sunlight was streaming into the tent, and the whole landscape was gleaming and glowing in the beauty of one of the hottest summer-days I ever remember. We breakfasted in our shirt-sleeves, and I was forced to wrap my head in a white handkerchief for fear of the sun. As we were all a little stiff after our ride, I could not resist the temptation of spending the day where we were, and examining more leisurely the wonderful features of the neighbourhood. Independently of its natural curiosities, Thingvalla was most interesting to me on account of the historical associations connected with it. Here, long ago, at a period when feudal despots

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