great world of Europe. Some had just heard of the fall of Louis Napoleon two years before; but not a question was put as to the war or its results on France, and when one volunteered remarks they excited no interest. Once or twice I was asked whether London was not a large town, and if I had seen when in America the Icelandic colony at Milwaukee, but here curiosity about foreign countries stopped. The fact was that they did not know enough about the phenomena of the world outside to know what to ask about it; while, as to its politics or social or literary movements, they felt that nothing that happened there would or could make any difference to them. To them at least what the French call the "solidarity of the peoples" has not any meaning or application. No political revolution, no ascendancy of democracy or imperialism, no revival or decay of literature or art, no scientific invention, will substantially affect their lives. Steam and the telegraph have done nothing for them, for there is not a steam-engine or galvanic battery in the country; and though a steamboat visits them six times a year, trade is not more brisk than in the old days. Even those discoveries which seem of the most universal utility, discoveries in medicine and surgery, are practically useless to them, who have but one doctor.*

And this is the third and last of the dominant impressions which one receives in Iceland-an impression of utter isolation and detachment from the progress of the world; stronger here than in the remotest wilds of America, because it is an old country, because its inhabitants are civilised, and because you know that whichever way the currents of trade and population may flow, they will never turn hither. The farmer of the interior of Iceland, or the north-west coast, lives on and is clothed by the produce of his own hillside, reads only his own language, hears of the great world but once or twice a year: what do its excitements and changes signify to him? What can they signify even to his late descendants? Human life is reduced to its simplest elements; and one feels how permanent those elements are, and how small a part man plays in the order of things. Nature confronts him, strong, inexorable, always the same; and he remains the same because unable to resist her. It is not wholly, it is not even chiefly, a dismal feeling, this sense of isolation and stillness in Icelandic life. The traveller enjoys for himself the most absolute immunity from the interruptions of his usual interests and duties that can be imagined, for no news from Europe can reach him; he may be offered a seat in the Cabinet, or accused of forgery, or pourtrayed in Vanity Fair-he will know nothing about it till his return. And he sees that the native Icelander, if he wants some of those requisites for the enjoyment of life which custom has made us expect, wants also many of the fountains of bitterness which spring up in a highly civilised society, and possesses all that philosophy can admit to be necessary for happiness.

* He is a very delightful and energetic old doctor, who travels up and down constantly, trying to diffuse sound ideas regarding health; but no one man can do much in such an area.

Comfort he has never known, and therefore does not miss; and he has the primal human affections, healthful and useful labour, books to ennoble his life by connecting him with the past and the future, the changing seasons, clouds and the colours of sunset, and, most of all, calm and the freedom from temptations-secura quies et nescia fallere vita. When the first Norwegians came to Iceland, driven forth by the conquests of Harold the Fair-haired, they found it already inhabited by a few saintly Irish hermits, who soon disappeared before the intruders. It is still a place to be commended to those who are tired of the giddy world and would give themselves to meditation upon everlasting problems.

These wandering reminiscences have rambled on further than was intended, yet many things have been passed over which it would have been pleasant to speak of-whimsical incidents of travel, curious little bits of ancient usage, such as the institution of parish arbitrators to whom a dispute must be submitted before it turns to a law-suit; instances of the friendly warmth with which the people are ready to receive strangers who do not give themselves airs, and which culminated in a farewell entertainment, at which the health of the departing visitors was proposed by a dear old friend, in a long Latin speech, with an eloquence and command of Ciceronianisms that put the answerer to shame. Enjoyable, however, heartily enjoyable, as we found our two months there, I cannot say that other travellers would, any more than I can feel sure that the views and sentiments I have tried to express are those which the aspect of the country and people will suggest to others. Even in our little party there were those who balanced very differently the pleasures and the miseries of our lot, and opinions diverged upon all sorts of Icelandic questions; one, for instance, maintaining the Icelanders to be an exceptionally religious people; a second, exceptionally unreligious; while the third thought them neither more nor less religious than the rest of the world. (Each still holds to his own view, so I commend the matter to the next traveller.) On the whole, our conclusion was that tourists, even those who are tired of Alps and Pyrenees, ought not to be advised to visit Iceland, unless they either are interested in Scandinavian literature and history, or belong to that happy and youthful class which enjoys a rough life for its own sake. Life in Iceland is certainly very rough, and if it may strengthen the strong, it tries too severely the weak. But he who does not fear hardships, and penetrates the desert interior, or coasts the wild north-west, may rest assured that he will find a new delight to the study of the ancient literature of the island, and of the island itself will carry away an ineffaceable impression. Ineffaceable, not only because it is peculiar, but because it is so simple; for as respects nature, it is the impression of an unchangeable present; as respects man, of an unreturning past. Iceland had a glorious dawn, and has lain in twilight ever since; it is hardly possible that she should again be called on to play a part in European history. But the brightness of that dawn can never fade entirely from her hills, or cease to ennoble the humble lives of her people. JAMES BRYCE.

Arachne in Sloane Street.

THE readers of the Spectator will remember the journal of the candid Clorinda, who at one in the afternoon calls for her handkerchief and works half a violet leaf. At the end of the week Clorinda moralizes as follows:

"Upon looking back to this my journal," she says, "I am at a loss to know whether I pass my time well or ill, and indeed never thought of considering how I did it before I perused your speculation upon that subject. I scarce find a single action in these five days that I can thoroughly approve of, excepting the working upon the violet leaf, which I am resolved to finish the first day I am at leisure."

Clorinda has evidently some respect for her needle. In her day the golden age of embroidery was not quite over. I have no doubt that the violets of her time, though stiffly drawn, were harmoniously shaded. The faded wreaths may still be to be seen, perhaps in some museum or repository of ancient goods, shaming the forward steam-propelled ornamentation of later generations by their modest graces. It would be indeed strange if hand-work did not surpass machinery in that same quality which makes a drawing superior to a photograph, a letter to a printed circular. Hitherto it has given us many yards of indifferent and formal produce in the place perhaps of as many inches of really good and worthy ornament; but now, says the Report, it has become probable that furniture will be decorated by the hands of women quite, or nearly, as cheaply as by machinery. "Hand-work is not only more beautiful, but it is thoroughly durable (the Exhibition of Ancient Needlework at South Kensington proved this), and each example has an individual interest and value." The Report then goes on to point out, "the peculiar advantage of this employment for gentlewomen who find themselves obliged to earn a living. The work is fascinating in itself, and brings out the best powers of the worker, while its endless variety and intellectual interest obviate all the weariness of monotony."

I cannot help contrasting this quotation and that from Clorinda's journal with a description I met with by chance a few days ago in George Sand's novel of Mauprat. It is of Edmée, the heroine, and her woolwork;

"Elle était penchée sur sa tapisserie, et de temps en temps elle levait les yeux sur son père pour interroger les moindres mouvements de son sommeil. Mais que de patience et de résignation dans tout son être ! Edmée n'aimait pas les travaux d'aiguille; elle avait l'esprit trop sérieux pour attacher de l'importance à l'effet d'une nuance à côté d'une nuance,

et à la régularité d'un point pressé contre un autre point; mais depuis que son père, en proie aux infirmités de la vieillesse, ne quittait presque plus son fauteuil, elle ne quittait plus son père un seul instant; et ne pouvant toujours lire et vivre par l'esprit, elle avait senti la nécessité d'adopter ces occupations féminines. Dans une de ces luttes obscures qui s'accomplissent souvent sous nos yeux sans que nous en soupçonnions le mérite, elle avait fait plus que de dompter son caractère, elle avait changé jusqu'à la circulation de son sang."

As one reads the page one can imagine the pattern that Edmée is tracing as she numbs away the time of her lover's absence; and her stitches mark the length of the slow-passing hours in line upon line of dull, unmeaning ornament, and dismal monotonies. No wonder that George Sand, great and impatient mistress of vivid colouring, of mystical workmanship; a weaver of unexpected and harmonious patterns, the unwinder of complicated threads of fate and life, speaks with scornful disparagement of the mechanical labour of Edmée's hands; but not so would she write of intelligent work with some interest and meaning in its intention. Clorinda, with unconscious art, might have given Edmée a hint as to her pattern. I am sure she would have liked to peep (with bright eyes enhanced by that fascinating patch which took so long to place) behind a certain red curtain that a friendly hand held up one bright spring morning not long ago; I dare say Edmée herself might have exclaimed, seeing a pleasant and unexpected sight; Clorinda would certainly have noted it all down in her journal on her return to her home, and to the attentions of Mr. Froth.

Behind the red curtain is a long and lofty room, into which the sun comes streaming, and where some twenty ladies are at work at tables and embroidery-frames, among shining heaps and folds of satin, veils of silver paper, packets of silk, bright tinted patterns. The heads are bent; the stitches are falling; there is a certain sense of serenity and application which strikes you as you come in-of colour and sunshine upon it. For one thing, a work-room of ladies is not a usual sight, and one is naturally impressed by some feeling of quiet refinement, in the place of that stolid dulness and indifference which so often weighs upon one's spirits, and one's conscience too, as one looks into some of those workplaces, for which one feels in some measure responsible.

Perhaps there may have been a time when such sights as this in Sloane Street were more usual than they are now. One has read of the châtelaines sitting, surrounded by maidens, in the castle-hall, and working many a scroll and patient conceit of tapestry against their lord's return. One has seen the result of Queen Matilda's perseverance, as she turned her days and years into long histories (what a strange law of life it is, by which people turn the vaguest of things, secret impatiences, weariness, want of money or interest, into tangible, hard shape, into stitches, into black lines upon paper, into coming and going, other people's affairs, into visiting cards, order, disorder, as the case may be !).

Here most certainly was a useful impulse of benevolence and cultivated instinct come to life; a new possibility among all the impossible things which are in the world.

No one noticed us as we came in. The stitches went on falling into their places. I could have imagined some such scene in the days when a Raphael himself might have come walking in with a design for tapestry, or when a Botticelli did not disdain to trace a pattern for the petticoat of a goddess. The two châtelaines, whose special interest lies among these workers, were standing in the midst directing. The work-mistress was going her rounds, the secretary was bringing her report, the workers were silently progressing. As Lady A went by, some of them looked up to smile at a familiar face. Patterns were flowing in a prim and measured cadence upon moon-lit and sun-lit stuffs. Here is a honeysuckle border starting from its suave satin ground, crisp and stately and harmonious.

When the lady for whom these honeysuckles were made went to Court in her raiment of fine needlework, no wonder that the people looking on admired as she passed. Most of them said it was rare old brocade -an heirloom in the great family to which she belongs; but our ladies have shown that they can do as well as the workers who lived in the most golden age of art. Some of the appliqué work is so well restored, that it is impossible to tell the difference between that of our ladies and their century-ago ancestresses. I saw a noble crimson flood of damask embroidered with a stately pattern which Titian himself might have liked to paint; and then again came great sun-flowers turning their faces to the sun, upon brown and upon velvet. One beautiful screen was shown us of pearl-green satin, blooming into a garden for a royal princess. Pink delicate hollyhocks rearing their full and stately heads, birds suddenly flying into a silken existence, corn heads, lilies uprearing on their stems. Surely the fairy princesses must have come to Sloane Street for their magic court robes, sunlight and moonlight stuffs and starry mantles. It remains to be seen whether the school will be able to stamp the mark of its work upon this Manchester age. That the work is charming is beyond a doubt, as also that it rises to the dignity of art, being kindled with that something beyond mere mechanism which should belong to all manual labour, of whatever kind it may be. The ladies are in some measure artists; their stitches are set with a certain intelligence and cultivation which tells even in a pattern traced upon a sampler. "The colour of that bird's wings kept me awake last night," I heard the work-mistress saying. No wonder that the bird plumes in harmonious tints upon its satin. As I think of the place, numberless pleasant, handsome things occur to me. There was a peacock dazzling upon a sunset blaze of gold, there were gentle little daisies flowering upon a melodious green ground.

The Report says that the School was started, first of all to revive a beautiful and practically lost art; secondly, to provide private and suitable employment for gentlewomen wishing to earn a living.