92 
LETTERS FROM HIGH LATITUDES. 
observed, with difficulty, was mysteriously closeted with 
a spirit lamp inside a diminutive tent of his own, through 
the door of which the most delicious 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 threat¬ 
ened 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 gentle stroll, we also turned in; and for the next 
