what he saw; had a great time at the governor's, and drank
every body drunk under the table, etc. Here, close by, the Prince
Napoleon pitched his tent--a large tent, very handsomely decorated;
room for all his officers; very fine gentleman the prince; had lots of
money; drank plenty of Champagne; a fat gentleman, not very tall; had
blackish hair, and talked French; didn't see the Great Geyser go up,
but saw the Strokhr, etc. Here was Mr. Metcalfe's tent; a queer
gentleman, Mr. Metcalfe; rather rough in his dress; wrote a funny book
about Iceland; told some hard things on the priests; they didn't like
it at all; didn't know what to make of Mr. Metcalfe, etc. Here was Mr.
Chambers's camp--a Scotch gentleman; very nice man, plain and
sensible; wrote a pamphlet, etc. And here was an old tent-mark, almost
rubbed out, where an American gentleman camped about ten years ago;
thought his name was Mr. Miles. This traveler also wrote a book, and
told some funny stories.

"Was it Pliny Miles?" I asked.

"Yes, sir, that was his name. I was with him all the time."

"Have you his book?"

"Yes, sir, I have his book at home. A very queer gentleman, Mr. Miles;
saw a great many things that I didn't see; says he came near getting
drowned in a river."

"And didn't he?"

"Well, sir, I don't know. I didn't see him when he was near being
drowned. You crossed the river, sir, yourself, and know whether it is
dangerous."

"Was it the Bruara?"

"No, sir; one of the other little rivers, about knee-deep."

Here was food for reflection. 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. I deemed it judicious, therefore,
to explain to him that gentlemen who traveled all the way to Iceland
were bound to see something and meet with some thrilling adventures.
If they didn't tell of very remarkable things, nobody would care
about reading their books. This was the great art of travel; it was
not exactly lying, but putting on colors to give the picture effect.

"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 nove