It is one thing, as Lord Dufferin remarks, to ride forty miles a day through the most singular scenery in the world, when a glorious sun brings out every feature of the landscape into startling distinctness, transmuting the dull tormented earth into towers, domes, and pinnacles of shining metal, and clothes each peak in a robe of many-coloured light, such as the “Debatable Mountains” must have been in Bunyan’s dream; and another to plod over the same forty miles, wet to the skin, seeing nothing but the dim gray bases of the hills, which rise you know not how, and care not where. “If, in addition to this, you have to wait, as very often must be the case, for many hours after your own arrival, wet, tired, hungry, until the baggage-train, with the tents and food, shall have come up, with no alternative in the meantime but to lie shivering inside a grass-roofed house, or to share the quarters of some farmer’s family, whose domestic arrangements resemble in every particular those which Macaulay describes as prevailing among the Scottish Highlanders a hundred years ago; and if, finally, after vainly waiting for some days to see an eruption which never takes place, you journey back to Reikiavik under the same melancholy conditions, it will not be unnatural that, on returning to your native land, you should proclaim Iceland, with her geysers, to be a sham, a delusion, and a snare!” There are no bridges in Iceland; no bridges, except, indeed, a few planks flung across the Bruera, and a swing-bridge, or kláfe, which spans the Jokülsa; and, as is still the case in some parts of the Scottish Highlands, the traveller must ford the streams, which are always rapid, and sometimes inconveniently deep. The passage of a river is, therefore, a formidable enterprise, as may be inferred from the experiences of Mr. Holland and other travellers. The guide leads the way, and the caravan follow obediently in his wake, stemming, as best they can, the swift impetuous torrent. Often the boiling water rises high against the horse’s shoulders, and dashes clouds of spray in the face of the riders. The stream is so furiously fast that it is impossible to follow the individual waves as they sweep by, and to look down at it almost makes one dizzy. Now, if ever, is the time for a firm hand, a sure seat, and a steady eye: not only is the current strong, but its bed is full of large stones, which the horse cannot see through the dark waters; and should he fall, the torrent will carry you down to the sea, whose white breakers are plainly visible as they crawl along the resounding beach at a mile’s distance. Happily, though hungry for prey, they will not be satisfied. Swimming would be of no use, but an “Icelandic water-horse” seldom blunders or makes a false step. But another danger lies in the masses of ice swept down by the whirling waves, many of which are sufficiently large to topple over horse and rider.