the hardihood to
penetrate the chilly fogs of the North, and journey by the compass
through a region of everlasting snows and desolating fires, could well
afford to stay at home during the remainder of his life, satisfied
with the reputation generally accorded him by his fellow-men. It was
something to have plunged into rivers of unknown depth, and traversed
treacherous bogs and desert fjelds of lava--something to be able to
speak knowingly of the learned Sagas, and verify the wonders of the
Burned Njal.

An isolated spot of earth, bordering on the Arctic Circle, and cut off
by icebergs and frozen seas from all intercourse with the civilized
world during half the year, once the seat of an enlightened republic,
and still inhabited by the descendants of men who had worshiped Odin
and Thor, must surely have presented rare attractions to the
enterprising traveler before it became a beaten track for modern
tourists. A simple narrative of facts was then sufficient to enlist
attention. Even the unlearned adventurer could obtain a reputation by
an unvarnished recital of what he saw and heard. He could describe the
Logberg upon which the republican Parliament held its sittings, and
attest from personal observation that this was the exact spot where
judgments were pronounced by the _Thing_. He could speak familiarly of
heathen gods and vikings after a brief intercourse with the
inhabitants, who are still tinctured with the spirit of their early
civilization. He could tell of frightful volcanoes, that fill the air
with clouds of ashes, and desolate the earth with burning floods of
lava, and of scalding hot water shot up out of subterranean boilers,
and gaping fissures that emit sulphurous vapors, and strange sounds
heard beneath the earth's surface, and all the marvelous experiences
of Icelandic travel, including ghosts and hobgoblins that ramble over
the icy wastes by night, and hide themselves in gloomy caverns by
day--these he could dwell upon in earnest and homely language with the
pleasing certainty of an appreciative audience. But times have sadly
changed within the past few years. A trip to Iceland nowadays is
little more than a pleasant summer excursion, brought within the
capacity of every tyro in travel through the leveling agency of steam.
When a Parisian lady of rank visits Spitzbergen, and makes the
overland journey from the North Cape to the Gulf of Bothnia, of what
avail is it for any gentleman of elegant leisure t