when left to themselves, they are remarkably skilful 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.

Klatr.

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 cannot 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 water-horse 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 Jökull, 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 onwards 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 stream on a grassy plain; but sometimes, in consequence of

the great distance from one habitable place to another, he is obliged to encamp in the midst of a bog where the poor horses find either bad herbs, scarcely fit to satisfy their hunger, or no food at all. After they have been unloaded, their fore-legs are bound together above their hoofs, so as to prevent them straying too far, while their masters arrange themselves in the tent as comfortably as they can.

The Westmans-Their extreme Difficulty of Access-How they became peopledHeimaey-Kaufstathir and Ofanleyte-Sheep Hoisting-Egg Gathering- Dreadful Mortality among the Children The Ginklofi - Gentleman John - The Algerian Pirates-Dreadful Sufferings of the Islanders.

R

ISING abruptly from the sea to a height of 916 feet, the small Westman Islands are no less picturesque than difficult of access. Many a traveller while sailing along the south coast of Iceland has admired their towering rockwalls, but no modern tourist has ever landed there. For so stormy a sea rolls between them and the mainland, and so violent are the currents, which the slightest wind brings forth in the narrow channels of the archipelago, that a landing can be effected only when the weather is perfectly calm. The Drifanda foss, a cascade on the opposite mainland, rushing from the brow of the Eyafyalla range in a column of some 800 or 900 feet in height, is a sort of barometer, which decides whether a boat can put off with a prospect of gaining the Westmans. In stormy weather the

wind eddying among the cliffs converts the fall, though considerable, into a cloud of spray, which is dissipated in the atmosphere, so that no cascade is visible from the beach. In calm weather, the column is intact, and if it remains so two days in succession, then the sea is usually calm enough to allow boats to land, and they venture out. As the Icelanders, through stormy weather, are frequently cut off from Europe, so the inhabitants of the Westmans are still more frequently cut off from Iceland, and it is seldom more than once a year that the mails are landed direct. The few letters from Denmark (for the correspondence is in all probability not very active) are landed in Iceland at Reykjavik, and thence forwarded to the islands by boat, as chance may offer, for, during the whole winter and the greater part of the summer, communication is impossible. It will now be understood why tourists are so little inclined to visit the Westmans, despite the magnificence of their coast scenery, for who has the patience to tarry in a miserable hut on the opposite mainland, till the cascade informs him that they are accessible, or is inclined to run the risk of being detained by a sudden change of the weather, for weeks or even months on these solitary rocks?

The puffin, or the screeching sea-mew, seem the only inhabitants for which nature has fitted the Westmans, and yet they have a history which leads us back to the times when Iceland itself first became known to man.

About 875, a few years after Ingolfr followed his household gods to Reykjavik, a Norwegian pirate, perchance one of the associates of that historical personage, landed on the coast of Ireland, attacked with fire and sword the defenceless population, captured forty or fifty persons, men, women, and children, and carried them off as slaves. The passage must have been anything but pleasant, for it gave the Hibernians such a foretaste of the wretchedness that awaited them in Iceland, their future abode, that taking courage from despair, they rose on their captors, threw them overboard, and went ashore on the first land they met with.

A day of rare serenity must have witnessed their arrival on the Westmans, a spot which of all others seemed most unlikely to become their home. Why they remained there,