nce of the reader. Surely
if there is a country upon earth abounding in obstacles to the pursuit
of the fine arts, it is Iceland. The climate is the most variable in
existence--warm and cold, wet and dry by turns, seldom the same thing
for half a day. Such, at least, was my experience in June. Wild and
desolate scenery there is in abundance, and no lack of interesting
objects any where for the pencil of an artist; but it is difficult to
conceive the amount of physical discomfort that must be endured by one
who faithfully adheres to his purpose. Only think of sitting down on a
jagged piece of lava, wet to the skin and shivering with cold; a raw,
drizzling rain running down your back and dropping from the brim of
your hat, making rivers on your paper where none are intended to be;
hints of rheumatism shooting through your bones, and visions of a
solitary grave in the wilderness crossing your mind; then, of a
sudden, a wind that scatters your papers far and wide, and sends your
only hat whirling into an abyss from which it is doubtful whether you
will ever recover it--think of these, ye summer tourists who wander,
sketch-book in hand, through the "warbling woodland" and along "the
resounding shore," and talk about being enterprising followers of the
fine arts! Try it in Iceland a while, and see how long your
inspiration will last! Take my word for it, unless you be terribly in
earnest, you will postpone your labors till the next day, and then the
next, and so on to the day that never comes.

Not the least of my troubles was the difficulty of getting a good
night's rest after the fatiguing adventures of the day. There was no
fault to be found with the bed, save that it was made for somebody who
had never attained the average growth of an American; and one might do
without a night-cap, but how in the world could any body be expected
to sleep when there was no night? At twelve o'clock, when it ought to
be midnight and the ghosts stirring about, I looked out, and it was
broad day; at half past one I looked out again, and the sun was
shining; at two I got up and tried to read some of the pastor's books,
which were written in Icelandic, and therefore not very entertaining;
at three I went to work and finished some of my sketches; and at four
I gave up all farther hope of sleeping, and sallied forth to take
another look at the Almannajau.

[Illustration: AN ARTIST AT HOME.]

On my return Zoega was saddling up the horses. A c