Just within the Arctic region, but nearly on the limits of what geographers call the Atlantic Ocean, lies an island which, since its colonization in the ninth century, has not ceased to excite the interest of the explorer and the man of science.

Iceland—which measures about 300 miles at its greatest length, from east to west, and about 200 miles at its greatest breadth, from north to south—is situated in lat. 63° 23’-66° 33’ N., and long. 13° 22’-24° 35’ W.; at a distance of 600 miles from the nearest point of Norway, 250 from the Faröe Isles, 250 from Greenland, and above 500 miles from the northern extremity of Scotland. As early as the eighth Christian century it was discovered by some European emigrants; though, indeed, the Landnana Book, one of the earliest of the island-records, asserts that they found the memorials of a yet earlier settlement in various Christian relics, such as wooden crosses, which appeared to be of Irish origin. At all events, the first really successful attempt at colonization was made by Ingolf, a Norwegian, who planted himself and his followers at Reikiavik in 874. In the following century a somewhat extensive immigration took place of Norwegians who resented the changes of polity introduced by Harold Haarfager, and all the habitable points on the coast were occupied by about 950 A.D. Fifty years afterwards, though not without much opposition, Christianity was legally established, and the bishoprics of Holar and Skalholt were founded. The government assumed the character of an aristocratic republic, with a popular assembly, called the Althing, meeting every summer in the valley of Thingvalla. Commerce was encouraged, and the Icelanders early distinguished themselves by the boldness of their maritime enterprise, and the extent of their ocean fisheries.

About the year 932 they discovered Greenland, and about 986 a portion of the North American coast, which they called “Vineland.” They did not confine their voyages to the north, but sent their ships even as far south as the Mediterranean. From 1150 to 1250 is rightly considered the most flourishing period of Icelandic literature and commerce. After the conquest of the island by Haco VI. of Norway, much of the old spirit seemed to die out. When Norway was united to Denmark in 1380, Iceland was included in the bond, and it is still regarded as a dependency of the latter kingdom. In 1540 it embraced the principles of Lutheran Protestantism. Its population at one time numbered 100,000, but it gradually diminished until, in 1840, it was reduced to 57,094; but a slow increase has taken place of late years, and it now amounts to about 70,000. The language spoken is the old Norse.

Iceland is a fifth part larger than Ireland, and its superficial area is estimated at 39,207 square miles. Not more than 4000 miles, however, are habitable, all the rest being ice and lava; for the island seems to be little more than a mass of trachyte, snow-shrouded and frost-bound, resting on a sea of fire. It consists of two vast parallel table-lands, the foundations of ranges of lofty mountains, most of which are active volcanoes; and these table-lands strike across the centre of the island, from north-east to south-west, at a distance from one another of ninety to one hundred miles. Their mountainous summits are not pyramidal, as is generally the case in Europe, but rounded like domes, as in the Andes of South America. Their sides, however, are broken up by precipitous masses of tufa and conglomerate, intersected by deep ravines of the gloomiest character. They are covered with a thick shroud of ice and snow, but in their wombs seethe the fiery elements which ever and anon break forth into terrible activity. The eastern table-land and its mountain range is the most extensive, and contains Oërafa, the culminating point of Iceland. It is visible from a great distance at sea, like a white cloud suspended above the island. Its height is 6426 feet, and it springs from a vast mountain-mass; no fewer than 3000 square miles being perpetually burdened with ice and snow, at an altitude varying from 3000 to 6000 feet.

A very considerable portion of the island is occupied by the large glaciers which descend from the mountains, like frozen torrents, pushing forward into the lowlands, and even to the margin of the sea. These act as almost impassable barriers to communication between the various inhabited districts.

We have spoken of the two ranges of table-lands as about ninety to one hundred miles apart. The interspace forms a low broad valley, which opens at either extremity on the sea—an awful waste, a region of desolation, where man is utterly powerless; where the elements of fire and frost maintain a perpetual antagonism; where blade of grass is never seen, nor drop of water; where bird never wings its way, and no sign of life can be detected. It seems a realization of Dante’s “circle of ice” in the “Inferno.” The surface consists of lava streams, fissured by innumerable crevices; of rocks piled on rocks; of dreary glaciers, relieved by low volcanic cones. It is supposed that some remote portions of the inaccessible interior are less barren, because herds of reindeer have been seen feeding on the Iceland moss that fringes the borders of this dreary region. But there is no reason to believe that it can ever be inhabited by man.

The extremities of the valleys, where they approach the ocean, are the principal theatres of volcanic activity. At the northern end the best-known volcano is that of Hekla, which has attained a sinister repute from the terrific character of its eruptions. Of these six-and-twenty are recorded, the last having occurred in 1845–46. One lasted for six years, spreading devastation over a country which had formerly been the seat of a prosperous colony, burying the fields beneath a flood of lava, scoriæ, and ashes. During the eruption of September 2, 1845, to April 1846, three new craters were formed, from which columns of fire sprang to the height of 14,000 feet. The lava accumulated in formidable hills, and fragments of scoriæ and pumice-stone, weighing two hundredweight, were thrown to a distance of a league and a half; while the ice and snow which had lain on the mountain for centuries were liquefied, and poured down into the plains in devastating torrents.

But the eruption of another of these terrible volcanoes, the Skaptá Jokul, which broke out on the 8th of May 1783, and lasted until August, was of a still more awful character. At that time the volcanic fire under Europe must have raged most violently, for a tremendous earthquake shattered a wide extent of Calabria in the same year, and a submarine volcano had flamed fiercely for many weeks in the ocean, thirty miles from the south-west cape of Iceland.

Its fires ceased suddenly; a series of earthquakes shook the island; and then Skaptá broke forth into sudden and destructive activity.

For months the sun was hidden by dense clouds of vapour, and clouds of volcanic dust were carried many hundreds of miles to sea, extending even to England and Holland. Sand and ashes, raised to an enormous height in the atmosphere, spread in all directions, and overwhelmed thousands of acres of fertile pasturage. The sulphurous exhalations blighted the grass of the field, and tainted the waters of river, lake, and sea, so that not only the herds and flocks perished, but the fish died in their poisoned element.

The quantity of matter ejected by the rent and shivered mountain was computed at fifty or sixty thousand millions of cubic yards. The molten lava flowed in a stream which in some places was twenty to thirty miles in breadth, and of enormous thickness; a seething, hissing torrent, which filled the beds of rivers, poured into the sea nearly fifty miles from its points of eruption, and destroyed the fishing on the coast. Some of the island-rivers were heated, it is said, to ebullition; others were dried up; the condensed vapour fell in whirls of snow and storms of rain. But dreadful as was the eruption itself, with its sublime but awful phenomena, far more dreadful were its consequences. The country within its range was one wide ghastly desert, a fire-blighted wilderness; and, partly from want of food, partly owing to the unwholesome condition of the atmosphere, no fewer than 9336 men,[10] 28,000 horses, 11,461 cattle, and 190,000 sheep, were swept away in the short space of two years. Even yet Iceland has scarcely recovered from the blow.

At the northern end of the great central valley the focus of igneous phenomena is found in a semicircle of volcanic heights which slope towards the eastern shore of the Lake Myvatr. Two of these are very formidable,—namely, Leirhnukr and Krabla on the north-east. After years of inaction, they suddenly broke out with tremendous fury, pouring such a quantity of lava into the Lake Myvatr, which measures twenty miles in circuit, that the water was in a state of ebullition for many days. On the sides of Mount Krabla, and at the base of this group of mountains, are situated various caldrons of boiling mineral pitch, the ruined craters of ancient volcanoes; and from their depths are thrown up jets of the molten matter, enveloped in clouds of steam, and accompanied by loud explosions at regular intervals.

But the most singular phenomena in this singular country, where frost and fire are continually disputing the pre-eminence, are the Geysers, or eruptive boiling springs. These all occur in the trachytic formation, are characterized by their high temperature, by holding siliceous matter in solution, which they deposit in the form of siliceous sinter, and by evolving large quantities of sulphuretted hydrogen gas.

Upwards of fifty geysers have been counted in the space of a few acres at the southern end of the great valley. Some are constant, some periodical, some stagnant, some only slightly agitated. The grandest and most celebrated are the Great Geyser and Strokr, thirty-five miles north-west from Hekla. These, at regular intervals, hurl into the air immense columns of boiling water, to the height of one hundred feet, accompanied by clouds of steam and deafening noises. In the case of the Great Geyser, the jet issues from a shaft about seventy-five feet deep, and ten in diameter, which opens into the centre of a shallow basin, about one hundred and fifty feet in circumference. The basin is alternately emptied and filled: when filled, loud explosions are heard, the ground quivers, and the boiling water is forced upwards in gigantic columns. Thus the basin is emptied, and the explosions cease until it is refilled.

Messrs. Descloiseaux and Bunsen, who, according to Mrs. Somerville, visited Iceland in 1846, found the temperature of the Great Geyser, at the depth of seventy-two feet, to equal 260° 30’ F. prior to a great eruption, reduced, after the eruption, to 251° 30’ F.; an interval of twenty-eight hours passing in silence.

About one hundred and forty yards distant is the Strokr (from stroka, to agitate), a circular well, forty-four feet deep, with a tube eight feet wide at its mouth, diminishing to little more than ten inches at a depth of twenty-seven feet. The surface of the water is in constant ebullition, while at the bottom the temperature exceeds that of boiling water by about twenty-four degrees. It appears, from experiments made by Donny, that water, long boiled, becomes more and more free from air, and that thus the cohesion of the particles is so much increased, that when the heat is sufficiently increased to overcome that cohesion, the production of steam is so considerable and so instantaneous as to induce an explosion. In this circumstance M. Donny finds an explanation of the phenomena of the Geysers, which are in constant ebullition for many hours, until, being almost purified from air, the intense internal or subterranean heat overcomes the cohesion of the particles, and thus an explosion takes place.

Lord Dufferin describes an eruption which he witnessed on the occasion of his visit to the Geysers, but for which he waited three days. Like pilgrims round some ancient shrine, he says, he and his friends kept patient watch; but the Great Geyser scarcely deigned to vouchsafe the slightest manifestation of its latent energies. Two or three times they heard a sound as of subterranean cannonading, and once an eruption to the height of about ten feet occurred. On the morning of the fourth day a cry from the guides made them start to their feet, and with one common impulse rush towards the basin. The usual underground thunder had already commenced. A violent agitation was disturbing the centre of the pool. Suddenly a dome of water lifted itself up to the height of eight or ten feet, then burst, and fell; immediately after which a shining liquid column, or rather a sheaf of columns, wreathed in robes of vapour, sprang into the air, and in a succession of jerking leaps, each higher than the last, flung their silver crests against the sky. For a few minutes the fountain held its own, then all at once appeared to lose its ascending power. The unstable waters faltered, drooped, fell, “like a broken purpose,” back upon themselves, and were immediately sucked down into the recesses of their pipe.

The spectacle was one of great magnificence; but no description can give an accurate idea of its most striking features. The enormous wealth of water, its vitality, its hidden power, the illimitable breadth of sunlit vapour, rolling out in exhaustless profusion,—these combine to impress the spectator with an almost painful sense of the stupendous energy of nature’s slightest movements.

The same traveller furnishes a very humorous account of the Strokr (or “churn”).

It is, he says, an unfortunate Geyser, with so little command over its temper and stomach, that you can get a rise out of it whenever you like. Nothing more is necessary than to collect a quantity of sods and throw them down its funnel. As it has no basin to protect it from these liberties, you can approach to the very edge of the pipe, which is about five feet in diameter, and look down at the boiling water perpetually seething at the bottom. In a few minutes the dose of turf just administered begins to disagree with it; it works itself up into “an awful passion;” tormented by the qualms of incipient sickness, it groans and hisses, and boils up, and spits at you with malicious vehemence, until at last, with a roar of mingled pain and rage, it throws up into the air a column of water forty feet high, carrying with it all the sods that have been thrown in, and scattering them, scalded and half-digested, at your feet. So irritated has the poor thing’s stomach become by the discipline it has undergone, that even long after all foreign matter has been thrown off, it continues retching and sputtering, until at last nature is exhausted, when, sobbing and sighing to itself, it sinks back into the bottom of its den.

The ground around the Geysers, for about a quarter of a mile, looks as if it had been “honeycombed by disease into numerous sores and orifices;” not a blade of grass grew on its hot, inflamed surface, which consisted of unwholesome-looking red livid clay, or crumpled shreds and shards of slough-like incrustations.

A region, corresponding in character to the desert mountain-mass we have been describing, stretches westward from it to the extremity of the ridge of the Snaefield Syssel, and terminates in the remarkable cone of Snaefield Jokul.

The island coasts exhibit a singularly broken outline, and the deep lochs or fiords, like those of Norway, only less romantic, dip into the interior for many miles, and throw off numerous branches. These fiords are wild and gloomy; dark, still inlets, with precipices on either side, a thousand feet in height, and the silence unbroken, save by the occasional wash of the waters, or the scream of a solitary ocean-bird. Inland, however, they assume a gentler character: they end in long narrow valleys, watered by pleasant streams, and bright with pasture. In these bits of Arcadia the inhabitants have built their towns and villages.

In the valleys on the north coast, which are adorned by clumps of willow and juniper, the soil is comparatively fertile; but the most genial scenery is found on the east, where, in some places, the birch-trees reach a height of twenty feet, and are of sufficient size to be used in house-building. The fuel used by the Icelanders is the drift-wood which the Gulf Stream brings from Mexico, the Carolinas, Virginia, and the River St. Lawrence.

In the south of the island the mean temperature is about 39°; in the central districts, 36°; in the north it rarely rises above 32°, or freezing-point. Thunder-storms, though rare in high latitudes, are not uncommon in Iceland; a circumstance which is due, no doubt, to the atmospheric disturbances caused by the volcanic phenomena. Hurricanes are frequent, and the days are few when the island is free from sea-mists. At the northern end the sun is always above the horizon in the middle of summer, and under it in the middle of winter; but absolute darkness does not prevail.

One of the most interesting places in Iceland is Thingvalla, where of old the “Althing,” or supreme parliament, was wont to hold its annual assemblies, under the “Logmathurman,” or president of the republic.

It is nothing more than a broad plain on the bank of the River Oxerá, near the point where the swift waters, after forming a noble cascade, sweep into the Lake of Thingvalla. Only a plain; but the scenery around it is indescribably grand and solemn. On either side lies a barren plateau, above which rises a range of snowy mountains, and from the plateaus the plain is cut off by deep chasms,—that of Almanna Gja on the east, and the Hrafna Gja on the west. It measures eight miles in breadth, and its surface is covered by a network of innumerable fissures and crevices of great depth and breadth. At the foot of the plain lies a lake, about thirty miles in circumference, in the centre of which two small crater-islands, the result of some ancient eruption, are situated. The mountains on its south bank have a romantic aspect, and that their volcanic fires are not extinct is shown by the clouds of vapour evolved from the hot springs that pour down their rugged sides. The actual meeting-place of the Althing was an irregular oval area, about two hundred feet by fifty, almost entirely surrounded by a crevice so broad and deep as to be impassable, except where a narrow causeway connected it with the adjacent plain, and permitted access to its interior. At one other point, indeed, the encircling chasm is so narrow that it may possibly be cleared at a leap; and the story runs that one Flosi, when hotly pursued by his enemies, did in this way escape them; but as falling an inch short would mean sure death in the green waters below, the chasm may be regarded as a tolerably sure barrier against intruders.

The ancient capital of the island was Skalholt, where, in the eleventh century, was founded the first school; an episcopal seat; the birthplace of a long line of Norse worthies, Islief the chronicler, Gissur the linguist, and Finnur Johnson the historian. But its glories have passed away; its noble cathedral has ceased to exist; and three or four cottages alone perpetuate the name of the once flourishing city.

The present capital is Reikiavik, to which, in 1797, were transferred the united bishoprics of Stoolum and Skalholt. It consists of a collection of wooden sheds, one story high, rising here and there into a gable end of greater pretensions, extending along a tract of dreary lava, and flanked at either end by a suburb of turf huts. On every side of it stretches a dreary lava-plain, and the gloom of the scorched and ghastly landscape is unrelieved by tree or bush. The white mountains are too distant to serve as a background to the buildings, but before the door of each merchant’s house, facing the sea, streams a bright little pennon; and as the traveller paces the silent streets, whose dust no carriage-wheel has ever desecrated, the rows of flower-pots peeping out of the windows, between white muslin curtains, at once convince him that, notwithstanding their unostentatious appearance, within each dwelling reign “the elegance and comfort of a woman-tended home.”

The prosperity of Reikiavik is chiefly due to its excellent harbour, and to the fish-banks in its neighbourhood, which supply it with an important commercial staple. In the summer and early autumn it is much visited by tourists, who start from thence to admire the wonders of Hekla, Skapta, and the Geysers; but its busiest time is in July, when the annual fair draws thither a crowd of fisher-folk and peasants. From a distance of forty and fifty leagues they come, with long trains of pack-horses, their stock-fish slung loose across the animals’ backs, and their other wares packed closely in boxes or bags of reindeer-skin.

The Icelander is honest, temperate, hospitable, possessed with a fervent spirit of patriotism, and strongly wedded to the ancient usages. He is also industrious; and though his industry is but scantily remunerated, he earns enough to satisfy his simple tastes. In the interior his chief dependence is on his cattle; and as grass is the main produce of his farm, his anxiety during the haymaking season is extreme. A bad crop would be almost ruin. He is, however, wofully ignorant of agriculture as a science, does but little for the improvement of the soil, and employs implements of the most primitive character. The process of haymaking in Iceland is thus described:—

The best crops are gathered from the “tún,” a kind of home-park or paddock, comprising the lands contiguous to the farmstead—the only portion of his demesne to which the owner gives any special attention, and on the improvement of which he bestows any labour. This “tún” is enclosed within a wall of stone or turf, and averages an extent of two or three acres, though sometimes it reaches to ten. Its surface is usually a series of closely-packed mounds, like an overcrowded graveyard, with channels or water-runs between, about two feet deep. Hither every person employed on the farm, or whom the farmer can engage, resorts, with short-bladed scythe and rake, and proceeds to cut down the coarse thick grass, and rake it up into little heaps.

Afterwards the mowers hasten to clear the neighbouring hill sides and undrained marshes.

This primitive haymaking, so unlike the systematic operation which bears that name in England, is carried on throughout the twenty-four hours of the long summer day. The hay, when sufficiently dried, is made up into bundles, and tied with cords and thongs, and packed on the back of ponies, which carry it to the clay-built stalls or sheds prepared for it. And a curious sight it is to see a long string of hay-laden ponies returning home. Each pony’s halter is made fast to the tail of his predecessor; and the little animals are so overshadowed and overwhelmed by their burdens, that their hoofs and the connecting ropes alone are visible, and they seem like so many animated haycocks, feeling themselves sufficiently made up, and leisurely betaking themselves to their resting-places.

During the protracted winter the Icelander, of course, can attend to no out-of-door labour, and passes his time within his hut, which, in many parts of the island, is not much superior to an Irish “cabin.”

The lower part is built of rough stones up to a height of four feet, and between each course a layer of turf is placed, which serves instead of mortar, and helps to keep out the cold. The roof, made of any available wood, is covered with turf and sods. On the southern side the building is ornamented with doors and gable-ends, each of which is crowned by a weathercock. These doors are the entrances to the dwelling-rooms and various offices, such as the cow-shed, store-house, and smithy. The dwelling-rooms are connected by a long, dark, narrow passage, and are separated from each other by strong walls of turf. As each apartment has its own roof, the building is, in effect, an aggregate of several low huts, which receive their light through small windows in the front, or holes in the roof, covered with a piece of glass or skin. The floors are of stamped earth; the fireplace is made of a few stones, rudely packed together, while the smoke escapes through a hole in the roof, or through a cask or barrel, with the ends knocked out, which acts as chimney.

In some parts of the island lava is used instead of stones, and instead of wood the rafters are made of the ribs of whales. A horse’s skull is the best seat provided for a visitor. Too often the same room serves as the dining, sitting, and sleeping place for the whole family, and the beds are merely boxes filled with feathers or sea-weed. There are, however, a few houses of a superior character, in which the arrangements are not much unlike those of a good old-fashioned English farm-house; the walls being wainscotted with deal, and the doors and staircase of the same material. A few prints and photographs, some book-shelves, one or two little pictures, decorate the sitting-room, and a neat iron stove, and massive chests of drawers, furnish it sufficiently.

From the houses we turn to the churches. In Reikiavik the church is a stone building, the only stone building in the town; but this is exceptional: most of the churches are not much better than the houses. We will be content, therefore, with a visit to the Reikiavik sanctuary, which is a neat and unpretending erection, capable of accommodating three or four hundred persons. The Icelanders are not opposed to a “decent ritual,” and the Lutheran minister wears a black gown with a ruff round his neck. The majority of the congregation, here as everywhere else, consists of women; some few dressed in bonnets, and the rest wearing the national black silk skull-cap, set jauntily on one side of the head, with a long black tassel drooping to the shoulder, or else a quaint mitre-like structure of white linen, almost as imposing as the head-dress of a Normandy peasant. The remainder of an Icelandic lady’s costume, we may add, consists of a black bodice, fastened in front with silver clasps, over which is drawn a cloth jacket, gay with innumerable silver buttons; round the neck goes a stiff ruff of velvet, embroidered with silver lace; and a silver belt, often beautifully chased, binds the long dark wadmal petticoat round the waist. Sometimes the ornaments are of gold, instead of silver, and very costly.

Towards the end of the Lutheran service, the preacher descends from the pulpit, and attiring himself in a splendid crimson velvet cope, turns his back to the congregation, and chants some Latin sentences.

Though still retaining in their ceremonies, says a recent traveller, a few vestiges of the old religion, though altars, candles, pictures, and crucifixes yet remain in many of their churches, the Icelanders are stanch Protestants, and singularly devout, innocent, and pure-hearted. Crime, theft, debauchery, cruelty are unknown amongst them; they have neither prison, gallows, soldiers, nor police; and in the manner of their lives mingles something of a patriarchal simplicity, that reminds one of the Old World princes, of whom it has been said, that they were “upright and perfect, eschewing evil, and in their hearts no guile.”

In the rural districts, if such a phrase can properly be applied to any part of Iceland, the church is scarcely distinguishable from any other building, except by the cross planted on its roof. It measures, generally, from eight to ten feet in width, and from eighteen to twenty-four feet in length; but of this space about eight feet are devoted to the altar, which is divided off by a wooden partition stretching across the church, just behind the pulpit. The communion-table is nothing more than a small wooden chest or cupboard, placed at the end of the building, between two small square windows, each formed by a single common-sized pane of glass. Over the table is suspended a sorry daub, on wood, intended to represent the Last Supper. The walls, which are wainscotted, are about six feet high; and stout beams of wood stretch from side to side. On these are carelessly scattered a number of old Bibles, psalters, and loose leaves of soiled and antiquated manuscripts. The interior of the roof, the rafters of which rest on the walls, is also lined with wood. Accommodation, in the shape of a few rough benches, is provided for a congregation of thirty or forty souls.

Poor as are the churches, the pastors are still poorer. The best benefice in the island is worth not much more than £40 per annum; the average value is £10. The bishop himself does not receive more than £200. The principal support of the clergy, therefore, is derived from their glebe-land, eked out by the small fees charged for baptisms, marriages, and funerals.

Such being the case, the reader will not be surprised to learn that the Icelandic clergy live miserably and work hard. They assist in the haymaking; they hire themselves out as herdsmen; they act as the leaders of the caravans of pack-horses which carry the produce of the island to the ports, and return loaded with domestic necessaries; and they distinguish themselves as blacksmiths, as veterinarians, and shoers of horses.

Dr. Henderson gives an interesting and graphic account of a visit he paid to one of these “poor parsons,” John Thorlukson, who, while supporting himself by drudgery of this painful kind, translated Milton’s “Paradise Lost” and Pope’s “Essay on Man” into Icelandic.

“Like most of his brethren, at this season of the year,” says Dr. Henderson, “we found him in the meadow assisting his people at haymaking. On hearing of our arrival he made all the haste home which his age and infirmity would allow, and bidding us welcome to his lowly abode, ushered us into the humble apartment where he translated my countrymen into Icelandic. The door was not quite four feet in height, and the room might be about eight feet in length by six in breadth. At the inner end was the poet’s bed; and close to the door, over against a small window, not exceeding two feet square, was a table where he committed to paper the effusions of his muse. On my telling him that my countrymen would not have forgiven me, nor could I have forgiven myself, had I passed through this part of the island without paying him a visit, he replied that the translation of Milton had yielded him many a pleasant hour, and often given him occasion to think of England.”

It is true that this passage was written some fifty-five years ago, but the condition of the clergy of Iceland has not much improved in the interval.

Travelling in Iceland, even under the more favourable conditions brought about by a constant influx of tourists, is not to be achieved without difficulty and discomfort. Not only is the country destitute, necessarily, of inns and the usual arrangements for the convenience of travellers, but much, very much, depends upon the weather. With a bright sky overhead, it is possible to regard as trivial and unworthy of notice the small désagréments which, in bad weather, develop into very serious annoyances. The only mode of travelling is on horseback, for as there are no roads, carriages would be useless; while the distances between the various points of interest are too great, the rivers too violent, and the swamps too extensive for pedestrian tours to be undertaken. Even the most moderate-minded tourist requires a couple of riding-horses for himself, a couple for his guide, and a couple of pack-horses; and when a larger company travels, it expands into a cavalcade of from twenty to thirty horses, tied head to tail, which slowly pick their way over rugged lava-beds or dangerous boggy ground.

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.

How the horses are able to stand against such a stream is every traveller’s wonder; nor would they do so unless they were inured to the enterprise from their very youth. The Icelanders who live in the interior keep horses known for their qualities in fording difficult rivers, and never venture to cross a dangerous stream unless mounted on an experienced “water-horse.”

The action of the Icelandic horses in crossing a swift river is very peculiar. They lean all their weight against the current, so as to oppose it as much as possible, and move onwards with a characteristic side-step. This motion is not agreeable. It feels as if your horse were marking time, like soldiers at drill, without gaining ground, and as the progress made is really very slow, the shore from which you started seems to recede from you, while that to which you are bound does not seem to draw nearer.

In the mid-stream the roar of the waters is frequently so great that the travellers cannot make their voices audible to one another. There is the swirl of the torrent, the seething of the spray, the crunching of the floating ice, the roll of stones and boulders against the bottom,—and all these sounds combine in one confused chaotic din. Up to this point, a diagonal line, rather down stream, is cautiously followed; but when the middle is reached, the horses’ heads are turned slightly towards the current, and after much effort and many risks the opposite bank is reached in safety.

Lord Dufferin says, with much truth, that the traveller in Iceland is constantly reminded of the East. From the earliest ages the Icelanders have been a people dwelling in tents. In the days of the ancient Althing, the legislators, during the entire session, lay encamped in movable booths around the place of council. There is something patriarchal in their domestic polity, and the very migration of their ancestors from Norway was a protest against the antagonistic principle of feudalism. No Arab could be prouder of his high-mettled steed than the Icelander of his little stalwart, sure-footed pony: no Oriental could pay greater attention to the duties of hospitality; while the solemn salutation exchanged between two companies of travellers, as they pass each other in what is universally called “the desert,” is not unworthy of the stately courtesy of the gravest of Arabian sheikhs.

It is difficult to imagine anything more multifarious than the cargo which these caravans import into the inland districts: deal boards, rope, kegs of brandy, sacks of rye or wheaten flour, salt, soap, sugar, snuff, tobacco, coffee; everything, in truth, which is necessary for domestic consumption during the dreary winter season. In exchange for these commodities the Icelanders give raw wool, knitted stockings, mittens, cured cod, fish-oil, whale-blubber, fox-skins, eider-down, feathers, and Iceland moss. The exports of the island in wool amount to upwards of 1,200,000 lbs. of wool yearly, and 500,000 pairs of stockings and mittens.

Iceland offers abundant sport to the enthusiast in fishing. The streams are well supplied with salmon; while the neighbouring seas abound in seals, torsk, and herrings. The narwhal-fishery is also carried on, and has its strange and exciting features. The implement used is simply a three-pronged harpoon, like a trident, with which the fisherman strikes at the fish as they rise to the surface; and his dexterity and coolness are so great that he seldom misses his aim.

Numerous works, in English, have been written upon Iceland and the Icelanders; the most trustworthy are those by Dr. Henderson, Professor Forbes, Holland, Chambers, and Lord Dufferin. The King of Denmark visited Iceland in 1874.