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In a few hours we reached a grass-patch, on which cows were grazing, beneath a curious hill, sloping rapidly to the plain from its snuffbox-like cap. This is the Meyjar-skarth, the spot where sports were wont to take place in old historic times, wrestling, goff, and stone-lifting; whilst the ladies sat on the sides of the hill, watching and backing the players. After a short halt, our horses scrambled up a narrow gorge to the left, past a stone on which the traveller is expected to inscribe his name. The way is steep and particularly unpleasant, as it lies between ashen grey cliffs, and over heaps of shattered tufa rock. Tufa is formed of volcanic cinder consolidated into rock, but the fragments are so feebly cemented together, that, with every thaw, masses of crag are dislodged and borne down into the vales. The view from the top of this pass amply repays all the trouble of the ascent. Far away in front is the silver dome of Ok Jökull, with the volcanic cone of Fantofell, or the Scoundrel's Mount, rising, dyed a deep gentian blue, against its matchless white. To the left, the iron grey mountain Scarps of Sülur, with here and there a terrace of green moss to relieve its gloom, and a stream flashing over its blackest bluff into the blue still lake at our feet, whose face is only ruffled by three drowsy swans floating in the shadow, like flakes of snow dropped from the mountain ledges. To the right, shoulders of sandrock, striking into the lake and retreating into bays, leaving flat beaches, over which Mr. Briggs and the baggage horses are already careering at a hand gallop. I leap from my horse and make a water-colour drawing, then scour down the hill in the spoor of the other horses and overtake them at a critical moment. The sands at the lake-head were so inviting that the mare carrying the great bed had made up her mind for a roll. In effecting this on a hill slope, her girths gave way, the bed broke loose, and I was just in time to see it bounding like a foot-ball down the incline, making straight for the lake, with my portly friend in full pursuit, uttering wails of dismay. Fortunately for him, the bed stopped dead in its course, wedged between two sand hummocks, just above the water's edge. By the time that this was rolled up-hill, the horse with the boxes had turned over for a roll, and was kicking in the air between the strong trunks, unable to recover himself, like a cockchafer on its back. As soon as the boxes and bed were readjusted, and we were fondly hoping that all was ready for the start, it was discovered that the grey with the brandy cases, was in full chase of another horse which had been tranquilly grazing near with a drove sent up the mountains for summer pasture. The guides flew in pursuit, and brought the palpitating beast to a standstill, fortunately without any of the spirits having been lost. Our course lay next over a hill-shoulder composed of angular blocks and chips, tossed down as if to try the horse's legs, without a patch of moss or a blade of grass to fill the crannies. From the top we had a glorious view of the silver peaks of Sülur, which reminded me somewhat of those of the Finster-Aarhorn. Sülur signifies tent-poles, and the mountain bears a fanciful resemblance to a tent propped on its poles, before the guys and braces are made fast. Hard by the road is a Grettis-tak mentioned in the Saga. It is a large stone, according to tradition lifted by Grettir, the great Icelandic hero and outlaw. That he “put" a big . stone is not impossible, but that the block in question was ever raised by him, is preposterous. From this point, a fine view is obtained of the stately Geitland's Jökull, with its many Snow-dales and gable scarps. (Plate IV.) In this glacier mountain is the mysterious Thorir's dale, which has not been explored since the time of Grettir (eleventh century), who discovered it and spent some years in its secluded recesses, shut in on all sides by snow-chains. Grettir found the soil covered with luxuriant herbage, and warmed by boiling springs emptying themselves into a rill which flowed through the valley. The brave outlaw left it only when wearied out by its solitude; and then, that the entrance to the glen might be found by others, he erected a slab on the side of Skjaldbreith over against the opening of Thoris

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