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exhuming Hampden's body. People seemed to think it derogatory to the dignity of the patriot to deprive him of his two carabine balls in the shoulder. What matter? Killed by the enemy's shot or the bursting of a treacherous weapon, he fell fighting dauntlessly for what he held the right. One may take leave of him not with the studied judgment of Clarendon, but with the heartfelt words of Arthur Goodwin, his colleague in the representation of Bucks: 'He was a gallant man, an honest man, an able man, and take all I know not to any man livinge second.'

One would be glad to realise the appearance of the man who so greatly impressed his contemporaries. But portraits of Hampden are few and doubtful. The most generally known is that in the possession of Lord St. Germans (reproduced in Green's History of England'), of which a copy now hangs in Hampden's own college of Magdalen. It is the portrait of a man not yet middle aged, wearing a cuirass, a man of a ruddy complexion and, it seems to the writer, a somewhat pleasure-loving cast of countenance. But there is the less cause for wonder here if, as is maintained, the original is the very picture which Hampden exchanged for one of Eliot shortly before his friend's death. Hampden was but thirty-six at the time, and the days of indulgence in all the license in sports and exercises and company which was used by the men of the most jolly conversation' were not so long gone by. More suggestive of the Hampden of Parliamentary fame is the terra-cotta bust—the only memorial of Hampden there-which stands in the National Portrait Gallery. An older, graver, leaner face, it holds you with a quiet eye, and you may stand and look upon it long till an echo of Clarendon penetrates your brain and you wake with a start to stand on your guard against infusions.'

MARCUS DIMSDALE.

119

IN ICELAND.

It was by the merest accident that I paid a visit in August last to Iceland, a country which I had never thought of including even in my dreams of travel. But it happened in this way: a party of friends, weary of waiting beyond the end of July for the English summer, which seemed to have been postponed indefinitely, determined to start off on a yacht and visit the North Cape and the ultimate fjords of Norway. We had armed ourselves with a library of books of travel in the regions which we hoped to explore, and so, fully equipped, left Euston Station for Oban, where we were to meet the yacht. But, within an hour of reaching our destination, our host received a telegram whose contents determined him to shorten his holiday by several weeks; wherefore, after a brief consultation, all our plans were altered, and Iceland became our objective instead of Northern Scandinavia.

From Oban it was a few days' sea-journey to Reykiavik, the capital of Iceland; but into those four days inexorable fate managed to crowd the maximum of discomfort from fog and cold and Atlantic swell. Nevertheless, the philosophy of our combined party was summoned to endure these passing hardships, and the result was entirely satisfactory. The only thing that really worried us was the fact that none of us knew anything about Iceland, neither where to go nor what to see. The ship's library, rich in travellers' tales about Africa and Asia and America, contained no volume that could shed a single ray of light upon the outer darkness of our ignorance. Somebody remembered having seen a telegram a few weeks earlier, saying that Iceland was enjoying a really hot summer, a statement which reminded somebody else that 'Iceland' is not the proper name of the country, but ' Island'; and this fact gave considerable comfort to those who imagined that we were steaming into the frozen regions of the North Pole. These grains of information, coupled with the news (extracted from some technical handbook discovered in the chart-room) that Iceland is larger than Ireland, and not, as many imagine, about the size of the Isle of Wight, completed our fore-knowledge of the country upon which we were about to descend.

After rounding the cape at Reykanaes, we got into comparatively still water beneath a cloudless blue sky, elements which restored the company to its normal state of cheerfulness and intelligence. General interest was once more aroused when we heard that a whale could be seen spouting to starboard: kodaks appeared to snapshot the whaler in pursuit, or even the lonely trawlers making their way back over the ocean to the east coast of England. The naturalist of the party at last secured an audience for his sapient remarks upon the birds, of the auk and other tribes, which abounded. It was plain that we were in the presence of a great and comfortable calm. Once only did we stop before bending into the bay at Reykiavik, to board a Grimsby fishing-smack and fill up with sea-food' of every variety. The men had just had their second haul, and the deck was alive with hundreds of fish of all sorts and sizes and colours; in fact, their embarras de richesses was only equalled by our embarras de choix, which we solved by paying ten shillings and a bottle of Glenlivet' for three pails full of cod and halibut, and other delicacies of the deep whose names I do not recall. Thus replenished, we steamed another ten miles, and finally cast anchor off Reykiavik, a small fishing-town without either character or pretension.

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Yet it is the oldest inhabited spot in Iceland, the home of the first colonist from Norway. Following the traditional custom of the Vikings, one Ingolf Arnason took with him upon his ship the pillars of his high seat from the home that he had left in Norway; then, as he sighted the unknown land, he threw these pillars overboard, with the determination to fix his new habitation on the spot where they should finally be washed ashore. Landing himself on the eastern part of the south coast, he followed the seaboard westward on foot; and, after three years of wandering, he found his pillars in this little bay, where now stands the chief town of the island.

The capital,' yes; but it has only 3500 inhabitants, who live in humble wooden dwellings which straggle along in three roads parallel to the seashore. There are a few stone houses, too, none more than one storey high, and a museum and a cathedral and a 'place.' Half a dozen rickety jetties extend out to the water, and these are crowded with boats and people. The inhabitants are paying no attention whatever to the fine ship that has just steamed in, but are attending the daily fish-market and carrying away their purchases in small tin buckets. So much we could see from the deck.

You land at Reykiavik, and feel instinctively that you are in the heart of an old-world life, which moves slowly and very reluctantly toward the voice of progress that is ever calling to her across the sea. All is tranquil and very calm; there are no railways or tramcars or steam-whistles, no barrel-organs or street-cries, no wheeled traffic, and no beggars. There are a few shops, but of quite a primitive kind, although sufficient for the needs of the whole island. The tourist, properly so called, is disappointed at first. He feels that he can take nothing away with him from Reykiavik, either intellectually or materially. This little capital is so different from all others that he has visited in Europe or America, where nationality proclaims itself from the housetops and invites the foreigner to investigate its peculiarities. Not so in Iceland. The short, square, rugged men, with high complexions and bearded faces, regard the stranger with courteous equanimity, and ride off down the street on their shaggy little ponies to work or dinner; the women, in their charmingly staid costumes, continue their purchases or their gossiping, even though a shipload of oddlydressed Teutons surge into the High Street. They are all-sufficient for themselves, these cloistered Icelanders. But, if chance favours you, and gives you an opportunity of making friends with but a few of them, you will find much that is interesting and sympathetic behind that indifferent exterior. I should say, though on very slight acquaintance with the natives of town and country, that they are a race of 'sahibs,' of Nature's ladies and gentlemen, kindhearted and upright and sober, well educated and courteous, patriotic and splendidly independent. Nobody is rich, but nobody is destitute; and the curious prevailing contentment with the merest necessaries of life must be held to account for the widespread indolence which distinguishes the race.

Similarly, in the shops there is no window-dressing' to attract or tempt the traveller. You have to dive through a gloomy little door into the darkened chamber to find those rare and native manufactures so dear to the heart of the globe-trotter; but, having done so, you are well repaid if your ambition does not soar too high. Old Mr. Pall, at the top of the street, is a dear old silver-worker, who copies ancient Icelandic ornaments that are marvels in delicacy of design; and he sells them to you at a price fixed by the weight of silver plus the cost of labour. He also buys cheap German silver cigar and cigarette cases, and embellishes these with coloured representations of the Midnight Sun, or of Hecla in eruption! But

he is an erudite old gentleman, who has picked up a smattering of most European languages, and has written an excellent IcelandicFrench grammar which is, I believe, the only one of its kind. Again, there is another shop called 'the bazaar,' through whose dingy windows you can faintly discern some inanimate figures and a few pieces of old silver. Within, the jumble is really entertaining in its variety. There are stuffed birds and beasts, skins and furs, silver and gilt ornaments, carved chairs and whips and toys, garments of all sorts-native and continental-boots and shoes, household utensils, and almost every other human requisite. But most attractive of all are the saleswomen, attired in the raiment of the country, their fair hair plaited and coiled beneath a tiny black cloth skull-cap, adorned with a long silk tassel threaded through a silver ring. They wear low black bodices, relieved by a coloured kerchief tied in a flowing bow and fastened with a silver brooch of some antique design, and a black apron of wool or silk covers a dark-coloured skirt, whose only ornament is a broad flowered border at the bottom. They ape none of the ways of the modern shop-lady. They appear to be almost indifferent as to whether you buy or no. But if you betray some interest in hearing about the costumes of the island, their apathy disappears. They will ransack whole cupboards to find the festal garments that are rapidly becoming more rare, and you will be tempted to invest in the crowns and Phrygian caps which encircle and support the gauzy veils that decorate the ladies' heads on high-days and holidays in Iceland.

Shopping in Reykiavik goes thus far and no farther for the tourist, and he will therefore turn his attention to the main objects of interest in the town. Probably the museum will please him best, with its admirable collection of Icelandic antiquities, weapons and wood-carving being the most prominent features of the exhibition; but real importance also attaches to a rich assortment of ecclesiastical furniture and ornaments, of altar-pieces and crucifixes and embroidered robes. The visitor should not fail to notice the ancient Icelandic loom which continued in common use until the middle of the eighteenth century, a loom which is in all respects similar to those employed by the ancient Greeks and Egyptians.

I do not know that I can recommend the cathedral, a most ordinary-looking building, whose internal decoration is uncommonly bad; yet it does contain one thing of beauty, a small marble font by Thorwaldsen. It was the celebrated sculptor's gift to his native

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