The school where most of the Icelandic clergymen, so poor and yet generally so respectable in their poverty, are educated, is that of Reykjavik, as few only enjoy stipends which enable them to study at Copenhagen. There they live several years under a milder sky, they become acquainted with the splendor of a large capital, and thus it might be supposed that the idea of returning to the dreary wastes of their own land must be intolerable. Yet this is their ardent desire, and, like banished exiles, they long for their beloved Iceland, where privation and penury await them. In no Christian country, perhaps with the sole exception of Lapland, are the clergy so poor as in Iceland, but in none do they exert a more beneficial influence. Though the island has but the one public school at Reykjavik, yet perhaps in no country is elementary education more generally diffused. Every mother teaches her children to read and write, and a peasant, after providing for the wants of his family by the labor of his hands, loses no opportunity, in his leisure hours, of inculcating a sound morality. In these praiseworthy efforts the parents are supported by the pastor. He who, judging from the sordid condition of an Icelandic hut, might imagine its inhabitants to be no better than savages, would soon change his opinion were he introduced on a winter evening into the low, ill-ventilated room where the family of a peasant or a small landholder is assembled. Vainly would he seek a single idler in the whole company. The women and girls spin or knit; the men and boys are all busy mending their agricultural implements and household utensils, or else chiselling or cutting with admirable skill ornaments or snuff-boxes in silver, ivory, or wood. By the dubious light of a tallow lamp, just making obscurity visible, sits one of the family, who reads with a loud voice an old “saga” or chronicle, or maybe the newest number of the “Northurfari,” an Iceland literary almanac, published during the last few years by Mr. Gisle Brinjulfsson. Sometimes poems or whole sagas are repeated from memory, and there are even itinerant story-tellers, who, like the troubadours and trouvères of the Middle Ages, wander from one farm to another, and thus gain a scanty livelihood. In this manner the deeds of the ancient Icelanders remain fixed in the memory of their descendants, and Snorre Sturleson, Sämund, Frodi, and Eric Rauda are unforgotten. Nine centuries have elapsed; but every Icelander still knows the names of the proud yarls who first peopled the fiords of the island; and the exploits of the brave vikings who spread terror and desolation along all the coasts of Europe still fill the hearts of the peaceful islanders of our days with a glow of patriotic pride.