I picked all the buttercups I could find growing on the grave, and preserved them carefully in a book.

Perhaps I may be able to give pleasure to several of my countrywomen by offering them a floweret from the grave of the greatest of Icelandic poets.
June 19th.
In order to pursue my journey without interruption, I hired fresh horses, and allowed my own, which were rather fatigued, to accompany us unloaded.
My object in this further excursion was to visit the very remarkable cavern of Surthellir, distant a good thirty-three miles from this place.
The clergyman was again kind enough to make the necessary arrangements for me, and even to act as my Mentor on the journey.
Though we were only three strong, we departed with a retinue of seven horses, and for nearly ten miles rode back the same way by which I had come from Reikholt on the preceding morning; then we turned off to the left, and crossing hills and acclivities, reached other valleys, which were partly traversed by beautiful streams of lava, and partly interspersed with forests--_forests_, as I have already said, according to Icelandic notions.

The separate stems were certainly slightly higher than those in the valley of Thingvalla.
At Kalmannstunga we left the spare horses, and took with us a man to serve as guide in the cavern, from which we were now still some seven miles distant.

The great valley in which this cavern lies is reckoned among the most remarkable in Iceland.

It is a most perfect picture of volcanic devastation.