ton had yielded him many a pleasant hour, and often given him occasion to think of England.”

This visit was followed by agreeable consequences for the venerable bard. The Literary Fund soon afterwards sent him a present of £30, a modest sum according to our ideas, but a mine of wealth in the eyes of the poor Icelandic priest. His life, however, was now near its close, as it is stated in a short view "Of the Origin, Progress, and Operations of the Society," dated March 3d, 1821, that "the poet of Iceland is now in his grave; but it is satisfactory to know that the attention, in this instance, of a foreign and remote society to his gains and his fortunes was highly gratifying to his feelings, and contributed not immaterially to the comfort of his concluding days."

He wrote a letter in very elegant Latin, expressing his heartfelt gratitude for the kindness and generosity of the Society, so accordant with the character of the British nation, and accompanied it with a MS. copy of his translation. The latter was first printed in Iceland in 1828, but his own original poems did not appear before 1842.

The school where most of the Icelandic clergymen, so poor and yet generally so respectable in their poverty, are educated, is that of Reykjavik, as few only enjoy stipends which enable them to study at Copenhagen. There they live several years under a milder sky, they become acquainted with the splendor of a large capital, and thus it might be supposed that the idea of returning to the dreary wastes of their own land must be intolerable. Yet this is their ardent desire, and, like banished exiles, they long for their beloved Iceland, where privation and penury await them.

In no Christian country, perhaps with the sole exception of Lapland, are the clergy so poor as in Iceland, but in none do they exert a more beneficial influence.

Though the island has but the one public school at Reykjavik, yet perhaps in no country is elementary education more generally diffused. Every mother teaches her children to read and write, and a peasant, after providing for the wants of his family by the labor of his hands, loses no opportunity, in his leisure hours, of inculcating a sound morality. In these praiseworthy efforts the parents are supported by the pastor.

He who, judging from the sordid condition of an Icelandic hut, might imagine its inhabitants to be no better than savages, would soon change his opinion were he introduced on a winter evening into the low, ill-ventilated room where the family of a peasant or a small landholder is assembled. Vainly would he seek a single idler in the whole company. The women and girls spin or knit; the men and boys are all busy mending their agricultural implements and household utensils, or else chiselling or cutting with admirable skill ornaments or snuff-boxes in silver, ivory, or wood. By the dubious light of a tallow lamp, just making obscurity visible, sits one of the family, who reads with a loud voice an old "saga” or chronicle, or maybe the newest number of the "Northurfari," an Iceland literary almanac, published during the last few years by Mr. Gisle Brinjulfsson. Sometimes poems or whole sagas are repeated from memory, and there are even itinerant story-tellers, who, like the trouba

dours and trouvères of the Middle Ages, wander from one farm to another, and thus gain a scanty livelihood. In this manner the deeds of the ancient Icelanders remain fixed in the memory of their descendants, and Snorre Sturleson, Sämund, Frodi, and Eric Rauda are unforgotten. Nine centuries have elapsed ; but every Icelander still knows the names of the proud yarls who first peopled the fiords of the island; and the exploits of the brave vikings who spread terror and desolation along all the coasts of Europe still fill the hearts of the peaceful islanders of our days with a glow of patriotic pride.

Where education is so general, one may naturally expect to find a high degree of intellectual cultivation among the clergy, the public functionaries, and the wealthier part of the population. Their classical knowledge is one of the first things that strike the stranger with astonishment. He sees men whose appearance too frequently denotes an abject poverty conversant with the great authors of antiquity, and keenly alive to their beauties. Travelling to the Geysirs, he is not seldom accosted in Latin by his guide, and stopping at a farm, his host greets him in the same language.

I have specially named Jon Thorlakson, but Iceland has produced and still produces many other men who, without the hope of any other reward but that which proceeds from the pure love of literature, devote their days and nights to laborious studies, and live with Virgil and Homer under the sunny skies of Italy and Greece. In the study of the modern languages, the Icelanders are as far advanced as can be expected from their limited intercourse with the rest of the world.

F

The English language, in which they find so many words of their own and so many borrowed from the Latin, is cultivated by many of the clergy. The German they find still more easy; and as all the Scandinavian languages proceed from the same root, they have no difficulty in understanding the Danish and the Norwegian tongues. Of all the modern languages or dialects which have sprung from the ancient Norse, spoken a thousand years ago all over Denmark, Sweden, and Norway, none has undergone fewer changes than the Icelandic. In the sea-ports it is mixed up with many Danish words and phrases, but in the interior of the island it is still spoken as it was in the times of Ingolfr and Eric the Red, and in the whole island there is no fisherman or day laborer who does not perfectly understand the oldest writings.

It may easily be imagined that among a people so fond of literature, books must be in great request. Too poor to be constantly increasing their small collections of modern publications, or of old "sagas" or chronicles, by new acquisitions, one assists the other. When the peasant goes on Sundays to church, he takes a few volumes with him, ready to lend his treasures to his neighbors, and, on his part, selects from among those which they have brought for the same purpose. When he is particularly pleased with a work, he has it copied at home, and it may be here remarked that the Icelanders are frequently most excellent calligraphists.

The foundation of a public library at Reykjavik in 1821, at the instigation of the learned Professor Rafn of Copenhagen, was a great boon to the people. It is said to contain about 12,000 volumes, which are kept under the roof of the

cathedral. Books are freely lent for months, or even for a whole year, to the inhabitants of remote districts. This liberality is, of course, attended with some inconvenience, but it has the inestimable advantage of rendering a number of good works accessible to numerous families too poor to purchase them. Another excellent institution is the New Icelandic Literary Society, founded in 1816. It has two seats, one in Copenhagen, the other in Reykjavik, and its chief object is the publication of useful works in the language of the country. Besides an annual grant of 100 specie dollars (£24) awarded to it by the Danish Government, its income is confined to the yearly contributions of its members,* and with this scanty means it has already published many excellent works.

Though remote from the busy scenes of the world, Iceland has three newspapers, the Thyodtholfr and the Islendingur, which appear at Reykjavik, and the Northri, which is published at Akreyri, on the borders of the Polar Ocean. The Islendingur is said to contain many excellent articles, but it would sorely task the patience of those who are accustomed to the regular enjoyment of the "Times "at breakfast; as it sometimes appears but once in three weeks, and then again, as if to make up for lost time, twice in eight days.

In spite of their ill-ventilated dwellings and the hardships entailed upon them by the severity of the climate, the Icelanders frequently attain a good old age. Of the 2019 persons who died in 1858, 25 had passed the age of ninety, and of these 20 belonged to the fair sex. The mortality among the children is, however, very considerable; 993, or nearly one-half of the entire number having died before the age of five in the year above-mentioned. Cutaneous affections are very common among Icelanders, as may easily be supposed from their sordid woollen apparel and the uncleanliness of their huts; and the northern leprosy, or "likthra," is constantly seeking out its victims among them. This dreadful disease, which is also found among the fishermen in Norway, in Greenland, in the Faeroes, in Lapland, and, in short, wherever the same mode of life exists, begins with a swelling of the hands and feet. The hair falls off; the senses become obtuse. Tumors appear on the arms and legs, and on the face, which soon loses the semblance of humanity. Severe pains shoot through the joints, an eruption covers the whole body, and finally changes into open sores, ending with death. He whom the leprosy has once attacked is doomed, for it mocks all the efforts of medical art. Fortunately the victims of this shocking complaint are rather objects of pity than of disgust, and as it is not supposed to be contagious, they are not so cruelly forsaken by their relations as their fellow-sufferers in the East. In the hut of the priest of Thingvalla, Marmier saw a leper busy grinding corn. Some of the poorest and most helpless of these unfortunate creatures find a refuge in four small hospitals, where they are provided for at the public expense.

Since a regular steam-boat communication has been opened between Icéland, Denmark, and Scotland, the number of tourists desirous of viewing the

* Their number in 1860 was 991. During his voyage to Iceland in 1850 Prince Napoleon was named honorary president, a distinction he shares with the Bishop of Reykjavik. Among the 46 honorary members I find the name of Lord Dufferin.

matchless natural wonders of the island has considerably increased. But travelling in the island itself is still attended with considerable difficulties and no trifling expense, to say nothing of the want of all comforts; so that most of its visitors are content with a trip to Thingvalla and the Geysir, which are but a couple of days' journey from Reykjavik, and very few, like Mr. Holland, make the entire circuit of the island, or, like Mr. Shepherd, plunge into the terra incognita of its north-western peninsula. The only mode of travelling is on horseback, as there are no roads, and therefore no carriages in Iceland. The distances between the places are too great, the rivers are too furious, and the bogs too extensive to allow of a walking tour being made. Even the tourist with the most modest pretensions requires at least two riding horses for himself, two for his guide, and two packhorses; and when a larger company travels, it always forms a cavalcade of from twenty to thirty horses, tied head to tail, the chief guide mounted on the first and leading the string, the other accelerating its motions by gesticulation, sundry oaths, and the timely application of the whip. The way, or the path, lies either over beds of lava, so rugged that the horses are allowed to pick their way, or over boggy ground, where it is equally necessary to avoid those places into which the animals might sink up to their belly, but which, when left to themselves, they are remarkably skillful in detecting. With the solitary exception of a few planks thrown across the Bruera, and a kind of swing bridge, or kláfr, contrived for passing the rapid Jökulsa, there are no bridges over the rivers, so that the only way to get across is to ride through them-a feat which, considering the usual velocity of their current, is not seldom attended with considerable danger, as will be seen by the following account of the crossing of the Skeidara by Mr. Holland.

"Our guide,” says this intrepid traveller, " urged on his horse through the stream, and led the way towards the mid-channel. We followed in his wake, and soon were all stemming the impetuous and swollen torrent. In the course of our journey we had before this crossed a good many rivers more or less deep, but all of them had been mere child's play compared to that which we were now fording. The angry water rose high against our horses' sides, at times almost coming over the tops of their shoulders. The spray from their broken crests was dashed up into our faces. The stream was so swift that it was impossible to follow the individual waves as they rushed past us, and it almost made us dizzy to look down at it. Now, if ever, is the time for firm hand or rein, sure seat, and steady eye; not only is the stream so strong, but the bottom is full of large stones, that the horse can not see through the murky waters; if he should fall, the torrent will sweep you down to the sea-its white breakers are plainly visible as they run along the shore at scarcely a mile's distance, and they lap the beach as if they waited for their prey. Happily, they will be disappointed. Swimming would be of no use, but an Icelandic waterhorse seldom makes a blunder or a false step. Not the least of the risks we ran in crossing the Skeidara was from the masses of ice carried down by the stream from the Jökul, many of them being large enough to knock a horse

over.

Fortunately we found much less ice in the centre and swiftest part of the river, where we were able to see and avoid it, than in the side channels. How the horses were able to stand against such a stream was marvellous; they could not do so unless they were constantly in the habit of crossing swift rivers. The Icelanders who live in this part of the island keep horses known for their qualities in fording difficult rivers, and they never venture to cross a dangerous stream unless mounted on a tried water-horse. The action of the Icelandic horses when crossing a swift river is very peculiar. They lean all their weight against the stream, so as to resist it as much as possible, and move onward with a peculiar side-step. This motion is not agreeable. It feels as if your horse were marking time without gaining ground, and the progress made being really very slow, the shore from which you started seems to recede from you, whilst that for which you are making appears as far as ever.

"When we reached the middle of the stream, the roar of the waters was so great that we could scarcely make our voices audible to one another; they were overpowered by the crunching sound of the ice, and the bumping of large stones against the bottom. Up to this point a diagonal line, rather down stream, had been cautiously followed; but when we came to the middle, we turned our horses' heads a little against the stream. As we thus altered our course, the long line of baggage-horses appeared to be swung round altogether, as if swept off their legs. None of them, however, broke away, and they continued their advance without accident, and at length we all reached the shore in safety."

After a day's journey in Iceland, rest, as may well be supposed, is highly acceptable. Instead of passing the night in the peasant's hut, the traveller, when no church is at hand, generally prefers pitching his tent near a running