journey in a public conveyance. I must have
undergone, however, in so doing, a mild
species of martyrdom—cold, hunger, delays,
bad smells, break-downs, interruptions, Austrian
policemen, passport showing, cross-questioning,
annoyance, and the very imminent
danger of robbery. Persons who appear
poor and insignificant in these countries have
no chance; while comfort and safety are only
to be purchased at a lavish expense.

The journey between Bucharest and Kraiova
was pleasant enough. I found the atmosphere
much clearer in the country than at Bucharest;
although there are no coal smoke or
tall cloudy chimneys in that small metropolis.
We went at a most cheerful pace, and the
wheels hummed along the frozen roads, and
the feet of the galloping little horses seemed
to clatter quite a pleasant tune. A courier
preceded me in a post-cart (a sort of
wheel-barrow) to order horses, so that
they were always drawn out, ready harnessed,
as I galloped up, and we were
seldom more than three or four minutes
changing. In truth, the Wallachian posthouses
offer small temptations to delay a
traveller. The peasantry are, I think,
without exception, the dirtiest race of
people I ever saw. They look like chimney-sweeps;
and the scattered houses on the
roadside are the foulest, blackest, poorest,
smokiest, and most uncomfortable I have
beheld. It should be added, however, that
the better villages do not lie on the roadside
at all; and a wayfarer who fancies himself
wandering on through an endless uncultivated
waste of moor and bog, would be surprised
to learn that, just out of his sight,
glistens many a pleasant homestead and gay
Boyard's house. We passed (as well as I
remember) but one village of any importance
between Bucharest and Kraiova. It swarmed
with Austrian soldiers; but they seemed to
keep altogether apart from the inhabitants,
and to loiter about the streets disconsolate
enough; poking their walking-sticks into
puddles, and philosophically chewing the
mouthpieces of their cigar-holders. Let the
men in possession of a neighbour's house put
as bold a face as they will upon matters,
there is an uncomfortable feeling in it, after
all. The very servants look askant at them
as if there was something uncanny in the
business. In short, I hardly knew which to
pity most: the Austrian army of occupation,
or the people whom their necessities and
exactions so sorely oppress.

    OLD SCANDINAVIAN HEROES.

STRINNHOLM, the Swedish historian, presents
a portraiture of the old Scandinavian
heroes, so different in some respects from that
which we are accustomed to associate with
"the bloody Danes," as to render it well
worthy of our attention. More particularly
when we remember that it is to these old
Scandinavians that we owe a portion of our
own national character—perhaps some of its
stronger elements—its indomitable will, its
perseverance, and, above all, its courage and
love of adventure. So far we are proud to
acknowledge inherited qualities from these
fearless and stern northmen.

Strinnholm says: Belief in the better nature
of humanity, or faith in human virtue,
was one of the great and beautiful features
which distinguished the old northern character.
It was with them no unusual thing
for quarrels to cease, or reconciliation to take
place, in consequence of a man referring his
cause to his adversary, and leaving it to him
to decide upon the terms of peace, and the
compensation or fine which he demanded or
was himself inclined to offer. The same noble
sentiment expressed by this manly confidence
in each other's justice evinced itself in all
other circumstances of life. Out of many
incidents given by Strinnholm to prove this,
we select the following:

An Icelander named Thorsten Fagre killed
one of his countrymen named Einer, who had
behaved towards him in a faithless manner.
The father of Einer, supported by one
Thorgils, determined to avenge the death of
his son. Thorgils, however, fell in the conflict;
Thorsten Fagre escaped, but was declared
outlaw by the Ting. Nevertheless, after
five years he returned, went to the father of
Thorgils, and laid his head upon his knee,
which was a symbolical mode of expressing
that he placed his life in his hands.

"I will not strike off thy head," said the
old man. "It is better where it is. But
thou shalt manage my estates during my
pleasure."

Another Icelander, named Gisle Illugeson,
went from Iceland to Norway in pursuit of
Giafald, the murderer of his father, who was
at that time one of the herdsmen of King
Magnus Barfot, with whom he was a great
favourite. One day, when the king was
travelling on the road to Nidaros with a considerable
number of attendants, among whom
was Giafald, Gisle, seizing a favourable
moment, rushed forward and gave him his
death-blow. This was a most serious offence.
Gisle was seized, put in fetters, and cast into
prison. At that time, three ships of Iceland lay
in Nidaros harbour, one of which was commanded
by Teit, the son of Bishop Gissur;
and the number of Icelanders residing in the
city was about three hundred. These met
together to take into consideration what was
best to be done; but they could not agree
among themselves until Teit took up the.
matter and addressed them thus:

"It would not be any honour to us if our
countryman and bold foster-brother should
be killed; but we all know the uncertainty
of meddling in such matters, and putting life
and property in danger; nevertheless, my
advice is, that we go to the Ting, and there,
as men who are not afraid of our lives,