lty 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. It does not require the aid of fiction to give it effect.
Therefore, should you come across any thing in my narrative which may
have escaped your notice, depend upon it I thought it was true--or
ought to be."

"Yes, sir; I know you would never lie like some of these gentlemen."

"Never! never, Zoega! I scorn a lying traveler above all things on
earth."

But these digressions, however amusing they were at the time, can
scarcely be of much interest to the reader.

Even after the lapse of several years the marks around the
camping-ground were quite fresh. The sod is of very fine texture, and
the grass never grows very rank, so that wherever a trench is cut to
let off the rain, it remains, with very little alteration, for a great
length of time.

On the principle that a sovereign of the United States ought never to
rank himself below a prince of any other country, I selected a spot a
little above the camping-ground of his excellency the Prince Napoleon.
By the aid of my guide I soon had the tent pitched. It was a small
affair--only an upright pole, a few yards of canvas, and four wooden
pins. The whole concern did not weigh twenty pounds, and only covered
an area of ground about four feet by six. Zoega then took the horses
to a pasture up the valley. I amused myself making a few sketches of
the surrounding objects, and thinking how strange it was to be here
all alone at the Geysers of Iceland. How many of my friends knew where
I was? Not one, perhaps. And should all the Geysers blow up together
and boil me on the spot, what would people generally think of it? Or
suppose the ground were to give way and swallow me up, what difference
would it make in the price of consols or the temperature of the ocean?

When Zoega came back, he said, if I pleased, we would now go to work
and cut sods for the Strokhr. It was a favorable time "to see him
heave up." The way to make him do that was to make him sick. Sods
always made him sick. They didn't agree with his stomach. Every
gentleman who came here made it a point to stir him up. He was called
the Strokhr because he churned things that were thrown down his
throat; and Strokhr means _churn_. I was very anxious to see the
performance suggested by Zoega, and readily consented to