AN ICELANDIC DINNEE. 
59 
they could not have descended much farther than 
Newfoundland, Nova Scotia, or, at most, the coast of 
Massachusetts.* 
But to return to more material matters. 
Yesterday—no—the day before—in fact I forget the 
date of the day—I don’t believe it had one—all I 
know is, I have not been in bed since,—we dined at the 
Governor’s;—though dinner is too modest a term to 
apply to the entertainment. 
The invitation was for four o’clock, and at half¬ 
past three we pulled ashore in the gig; I, innocent 
that I was, in a well-fitting white waistcoat. 
The Government House, like all the others, is built 
of wood, on the top of a hillock; the only accession 
of dignity it can boast being a little bit of mangy 
kifohen-garden that hangs down in front to the road, 
like a soiled apron. There was no lock, handle, bell, 
or knocker to the door, but immediately on our 
* There is a certain piece of rock on the Taunton river, in 
Massachusetts, called the Deighton Stone, on which are to be seen 
rude configurations, for a long time supposed to be a Runic in¬ 
scription executed by these Scandinavian voyagers; but there can 
be now no longer any doubt of this inscription, such as it is, being 
of Indian execution. 
