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of great windows flashing with light. What something proud, like a monarch of the sea; a pity there's no time,' he said. She asked and it was only a damp, gravish-white line, 'For what?' with the most complete want of rising not very far out of those sullen waves. comprehension. For shopping, of course,' he An east wind was blowing with that blighting said, with a laugh. For shopping! She seemed grayness which here, in the uttermost parts of to be unacquainted with the meaning of the the earth, we are so well used to and it was words. In the midst of this strange wave of cold. A gleam of pale sun indeed shot out the unknown which was carrying her away, of the clouds from time to time; but there carrying her to a world more unknown still, was no real warmth in it, and the effect of to suppose that she could pause and think of everything was depressing. The green fields shopping! The inappropriateness of the sugges- and hedgerows cheered her a little; but it was tion bewildered Frances. Markham, indeed, alto- all damp, and the sky was gray. And then gether bewildered her. He was very good to London, with a roar and noise as if she had her, attending to her comfort, watchful over her fallen into a den of wild beasts, and throngs, needs in a way which Frances could not have multitudes of people at every little station which imagined possible. Her father had never been the quick train flashed past, and on the platunkind; but it did not occur to him to take care form, where at last she arrived dizzy and faint of her. It was she who took care of him. If with fatigue and wonderment. But Markham there was anything forgotten, it was she who got always was more kind than words could say. the blame; and when he wanted a book, or his He sympathised with her, seeing her forlorn writing-desk, or a rug to put over his knees, looks at everything. He did not ask her how he called to his little girl to hand it to him, she liked it, what she thought of her native without the faintest conception that there was country. When they arrived at last, he found anything incongruous in it. And there was out miraculously, among the crowd of carriages, nothing incongruous in it. If there is any one a quiet, little, dark-coloured brougham, and put in the world whom it is natural to send on her into it. We'll trundle off home,' he said, your errands, to get you what you want, surely you and I, Fan, and let John look after the your child is that person. Waring did not things; you are so tired you can scarcely speak.' think on the subject, but simply did so by 'Not so much tired,' said Frances, and tried instinct, by nature; and equally by instinct to smile, but could not say any more. Frances obeyed, without a doubt that it was her simplest duty. If Markham had said: 'Get me my book, Frances; dear child, just open that bag-hand me so-and-so,' she would have considered it the most natural thing in the world. What he did do surprised her much more. He tripped in and out of his seat at her smallest suggestion. He pulled up and down the window at her pleasure, never appearing to think that it mattered whether he liked it or not. He took her out carefully on his arm, and made her dine, not asking what she would have, as her father might perhaps have done, but bringing her the best that was to be had, choosing what she should eat, serving her as if she had been the Queen! It contributed to the dizzying effect of the rapid journey that she should thus have been placed in a position so different from any that she had ever known.

She

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'I understand.' He took her hand into his with the kindest caressing touch. You mustn't be frightened, my dear. There's nothing to be frightened about. You'll like my mother.-Perhaps it was silly of me to say that, and make you cry. Don't cry, Fan, or I shall cry too. am the foolishest little beggar, you know, and always do what my companions do. Don't make a fool of your old brother, my dear. There, look out and see what a beastly place old London is, Fan.'

'Don't call me, Fan,' she cried, this slight irritation affording her an excuse for disburdening herself of some of the nervous excitement in her. 'Call me Frances, Markham.'

'Life's too short for a name in two syllables. I've got two syllables myself, that's true; but many fellows call me Mark, and you are welcome to, if you like.-No; I shall call you Fan; you must make up your mind to it. Did you ever see such murky heavy air? It isn't air at all— it's smoke and animalculæ and everything that's dreadful. It's not like that blue stuff on the Riviera, is it?'

"O no!' cried Frances, with fervour. 'But I suppose London is better for some things,' she added with a doubtful voice.

'Better! It's better than any other place on the face of the earth; it's the only place to live in,' said Markham. Why, child, it is paradise' he paused a moment, and then added, 'with pandemonium next door.'

And then there came the last stage, the strange leaden-gray stormy sea, which was so unlike those blue ripples that came up just so far no farther, on the beach at Bordighera. began to understand what is said in the Bible about the waves that mount up like mountains, when she saw the roll of the Channel. She had always a little wondered what that meant. To be sure, there were storms now and then along the Riviera, when the blue edge to the sea-mantle disappeared, and all became a deep purple, solemn enough for a king's pall, as it has been the pall of so many a brave man; but even that was never like the dangerous threatening lash of the waves along those rocks, and the way in which they raised their awful heads. And was that England, white with a faint line of green, so sodden and damp as it looked, rising out of the sea? The heart of Frances sank: it was not like her anticipations. The door flashed open as soon as the carriage She had thought there would be something stopped, letting out a flood of light and warmth. triumphant, grand, about the aspect of England | Markham almost lifted the trembling girl out.

'Markham!' the girl cried.

'I was wrong to mention such a place in your hearing. I know I was. Never mind, Fan; you shall see the one, and you shall know nothing about the other.-Why, here we are in Eaton Square.'

She had got her veil entangled about her head, her arms in the cloak which she had half thrown off. She was not prepared for this abrupt arrival. She seemed to see nothing but the light, to know nothing until she found herself suddenly in some one's arms; then the light seemed to go out of her eyes. Sight had nothing to do with the sensation, the warmth, the softness, the faint rustle, the faint perfume, with which she was suddenly encircled; and for a few moments she knew nothing more.

'Dear, dear, Markham, I hope she is not delicate-I hope she is not given to fainting,' she heard in a disturbed but pleasant voice, before she felt able to open her eyes.

'Not a bit,' said Markham's familiar tones. 'She's overdone, and awfully anxious about meeting you.'

My poor dear! Why should she be anxious about meeting me?' said the other voice, a voice round and soft, with a plaintive tone in it; and then there came the touch of a pair of lips, soft and caressing like the voice, upon the girl's cheek. She did not yet open her eyes, half because she could not, half because she would not, but whispered in a faint little tentative utterance, 'Mother!' wondering vaguely whether the atmosphere round her, the kiss, the voice, was all the mother she was to know.

'My poor little baby, my little girl! Open your eyes.-Markham, I want to see the colour of her eyes.'

'As if I could open her eyes for you!' cried Markham with a strange outburst of sound, which, if he had been a woman, might have meant crying, but must have been some sort of a laugh, since he was a man. He seemed to walk away, and then came back again. Come, Fan! that's enough. Open your eyes, and look I told you there was nothing to be frightened for.'

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ness, throwing herself into her mother's arms. The temptation to tell her that she had never known anything about her mother, to excuse herself at her father's expense, was strong. But she kept back the words that were at her lips. 'I have always wanted this all my life,' she cried with a sudden impulse, and laid her head upon her mother's breast, feeling in all the commotion and melting of her heart a consciousness of the accessories, the rich softness of the satin, the delicate perfume, all the details of the new personality by which her own was surrounded on every side.

'Now I see,' cried the new-found mother, 'it was no use parting this child and me, Markham. It is all the same between us-isn't it, my darling?

-as if we had always been together-all the same in a moment.-Come up-stairs now, if you feel able, dear one.-Do you think, Markham, she is able to walk up-stairs?'

It was

'Oh, quite able; oh, quite, quite well. only for a moment. I was-frightened, I think.'

But you will never be frightened any more,' said Lady Markham, drawing the girl's arm through her own, leading her away. Frances was giddy still, and stumbled as she went, though she had pledged herself never to be frightened again. She went in a dream up the softly carpeted stairs. She knew what handsome rooms were, the lofty bare grandeur of an Italian palazzo; but all this carpeting and cushioning, the softness, the warmth, the clothed and comfortable look, bewildered her. She could scarcely find her way through the drawing-room, crowded with costly furniture, to the blazing fire, by the side of which stood the tea-table, like, and yet how unlike that anxious copy of English ways which Frances had set up in the loggia. She was conscious, with a momentary gleam of complacency, that her cups and saucers were better, though! not belonging to an ordinary modern set, like these; but, alas, in everything else how far short! Then she was taken up-stairs, through-as she thought

And then Frances raised herself; for, to her astonishment, she was lying down upon a sofa, and looked round her, bewildered. Beside her the sumptuous arrangements of her mother's stood a little lady, about her own height, with room, to another smaller, which opened from it, smooth brown hair like hers, with her hands and in which there was the same wealth of car-1 clasped, just as Frances was aware she had herself pets, curtains, easy-chairs, and writing-tables, in a custom of clasping her hands. It began to addition to the necessary details of a sleepingdawn upon her that Constance had said she was room. Frances looked round it admiringly. She very like mamma. This new-comer was beauti- knew nothing about the modern-artistic, though fully dressed in soft black satin, that did not something, a very little, about old art. The rustle-that was far, far too harsh a word-but painted ceilings and old gilding of the Palazzoswept softly about her with the faintest pleasant which she began secretly and obstinately to call sound; and round her breathed that atmosphere home from this moment forth-were intelligible which Frances felt would mean mother to her to her; but she was quite unacquainted with Mr for ever and ever, an air that was infinitely soft, Morris's papers and the art fabrics at Liberty's. with a touch in it of some sweetness. Oh, not She looked at them with admiration, but doubt. scent! She rejected the word with disdain-She thought the walls 'killed' the pictures that something, nothing, the atmosphere of a mother. In the curious ecstasy in which she was, made up of fatigue, wonder, and the excitement of this astounding plunge into the unknown, that was how she felt.

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were hung round, which were not like her own little gallery at home, which she had left with a little pang to her sister. 'Is this Constance" room?' she asked timidly, called back to a recollection of Constance, and wondering whether the transfer was to be complete.

'No, my love; it is Frances' room,' said Lady Markham. 'It has always been ready for you. I expected you to come some time. I have always hoped that; but I never thought that Con would desert me.' Her voice faltered little, which instantly touched Frances' heart.

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'I asked,' she said, 'not just out of curiosity,

but because, when she came to us, I gave her my room. Our rooms are not like these; they have very few things in them. There are no carpets; it is warmer there, you know; but I thought she would find the blue room so bare, I gave her mine.'

Lady Markham smiled upon her, and said, but with a faint, the very faintest indication of being less interested than Frances was: You have not many visitors, I suppose?'

Oh, none!' cried Frances. I suppose we are -rather poor. We are not-like this.'

'My darling! you don't know how to speak to me, your own mother! What do you mean, dear, by we? You must learn to mean something else by we. Your father, if he had chosen, might have had all that you see, and more. And Constance- But we will say nothing more to-night on that subject.-This is Con's room, see, on the other side of mine. It was always my fancy, my hope, some time to have my two girls, one on each side.'

Frances followed her mother to the room on the other side with great interest. It was still more luxurious than the one appropriated to herself-more comfortable, as a room which has been occupied, which shows traces of its tenant's tastes and likings, must naturally be; and it was brighter, occupying the front of the house, while that of Frances' looked to the side. She glanced round at all the fittings and decorations, which, to her unaccustomed eyes, were so splendid. 'Poor Constance!' she said under her breath.

Why do you say poor Constance?' said Lady Markham, with something sharp and sudden in her tone. And then she, too, said regretfully: 'Poor Con! You think it will be disappointing to her, this other life which she has chosen. Was it-dreary for you, my poor child?'

She did

Then there rose up in the tranquil mind of Frances a kind of tempest-blast of opposition and resentment. "It is the only life I know-it was -everything I liked best,' she cried. The first part of the sentence was very firmly, almost aggressively said. In the second, she wavered, hesitated, changed the tense-it_was. not quite know herself what the change meant. Lady Markham looked at her with a penetrating gaze. 'It was everything you knew, my little Frances. I understand you, my dear. You will not be disloyal to the past. But to Constance, who does not know it, who knows Something else— Poor Con! I understand. But she will have to pay for her experience, like all the rest.'

Frances had been profoundly agitated, but in the way of happiness. She did not feel happy now. She felt disposed to cry, not because of the relief of tears, but because she did not know how else to express the sense of contrariety, of disturbance that had got into her mind. Was it that already a wrong note had sounded between herself and this unknown mother, whom it had been a rapture to see and touch? Or was it only that she was tired? Lady Markham saw the condition into which her nerves and temper were strained. She took her back tenderly into her room. My dear,' she said, "if you would rather not, don't change your dress. Do just as you please to-night. I would stay and help you, or I would send Josephine, my maid, to help

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you; but I think you will prefer to be left alone and quiet.'

‘O yes,' cried Frances with fervour; then she added hastily: 'If you do not think me disagreeable to say so.'

I am not prepared to think anything in you disagreeable, my dear,' said her mother, kissing her-but with a sigh. This sigh Frances echoed in a burst of tears when the door closed and she found herself alone-alone, quite alone, more so than she had ever been in her life, she whispered to herself, in the shock of the unreasonable and altogether fantastic disappointment which had followed her ecstasy of pleasure. Most likely it meant nothing at all but the reaction from that too highly raised level of feeling.

'No; I am not disappointed,' Lady Markham was saying down-stairs. She was standing before the genial blaze of the fire, looking into it with her head bent and a serious expression on her face. Perhaps I was too much delighted for a moment; and she too, poor child, now that she has looked at me a second time, she is a little, just a little disappointed in me. That's rather hard for a mother, you know; or I suppose you don't know.'

I never was a mother,' said Markham. 'I should think it's very natural. The little thing has been forming the most romantic ideas. If you had been an angel from heaven' 'Which I am not,' she said with a smile, still looking into the fire.

'Heaven be praised,' said Markham. In that case, you would not have suited me, which you do, mammy, you know, down to the ground.'

She gave a half-glance at him, a half-smile, but did not disturb the chain of her reflections. 'That's something, Markham,' she said.

'Yes; it's something. On my side, it is a great deal. Don't go too fast with little Fan. She has a deal in her. Have a little patience, and let her settle down her own way.'

'I don't feel sure that she has not got her father's temper; I saw something like it in her eyes.'

"That is nonsense, begging your pardon. She has got nothing of her father in her eyes. Her eyes are like yours, and so is everything about her. My dear mother, Con's like Waring, if you like. This one is of our side of the house.'

'Do you really think so?' Lady Markham looked up now and laid her hand affectionately upon his shoulder, and laughed. 'But, my dear boy, you are as like the Markhams as you can look. On my side of the house, there is nobody at all, unless, as you say ''Frances,' said the little man. 'I told you— the best of the lot. I took to her in a moment by that very token. Therefore, don't go too fast with her, mother. She has her own notions. She is as staunch as a little-Turk,' said Markham, using the first word that offered. When he met his mother's eye, he retired a little, with the air of a man who does not mean to be questioned; which naturally stimulated curiosity in her mind.

'How have you found out that she is staunch, Markham?'

'Oh, in half-a-dozen ways,' he answered carelessly. And she will stick to her father through thick and thin, so mind what you say.'

Then Lady Markham began to bemoan herself a little gently, before the fire, in the most luxurious of easy-chairs.

'Was ever woman in such a position,' she said, 'to be making acquaintance, for the first time, at eighteen, with my own daughter, and to have to pick my words and to be careful what I say?'

Well, mammy,' said Markham, 'it might have been worse. Let us make the best of it. He has always kept his word, which is something, and has never annoyed you. And it is quite a nice thing for Con to have him to go to, to find out how dull it is, and know her own mind. And now we've got the other one too.'

Lady Markham still rocked herself a little in her chair, and put her handkerchief to her eyes. 'For all that, it is very hard, both on her and me,' she said.

Fishing is carried on more or less all the year; but the vertid (pronounced vertith)—the fishing season proper commences about the beginning of February. Then, in addition to the regular fishermen, great numbers of landsmen come from all parts of the country to pursue that industry. In many landward districts, almost all the ablebodied men go on foot to the coast, leaving the care of the farms and animals to the women, boys, and old men. They often travel long dis tances, and their journeys are at that inclement season attended with not a little difficulty and danger. Arrived at the coast, they join with the regular fishermen in forming boats' crews, varying in number from six to twelve or fifteen men, each boat being under the command of an experienced hand, the formadur (pronounced for-mathur) or foreman. Besides these large boats, smaller craft, manned by two or four men, are used; but these, as a rule, fish near the land.

not permitted before the 15th of March, as it is believed that laying nets earlier may hinder the fish from entering the bays and fiords, and pos sibly drive them away altogether. The owner of the boat provides the lines and hooks, and generally the nets also, when these are used, in which case he gets half the entire catch, the other half being divided equally among the crew; otherwise, the catch is divided into equal shares, one to each man, and one, or two, to the boat, according to its size. This division takes place at once on landing, and the fish are forthwith gutted and laid in salt. The heads and sounds (swimmingbladders) are cleaned and dried, and the livers and roes collected in barrels. After the fish have lain in salt for a period varying according to the nature of the weather and the convenience of the fishermen, they are washed in sea-water, to remove the excess of salt, piled in heaps to drain, and then alternately spread in the sun to dry, and pressed in heaps, covered by boards weighted with heavy stones, until the curing is complete. This process requires considerable time and great care in all its details. Much skill and experience are required to turn out good salt fish.

The spring fishing is carried on chiefly by THE FISHERIES OF ICELAND. means of hand-lines; long lines are used at other ICELAND, though not, as the name would imply, times of the year; but the use of them during and as many people suppose, a land covered with the vertid is considered inadvisable; and in the ice, a huge mass of glaciers, only diversified by Faxa Floa-the great bay on the south-west of the appearance here and there of a few burning Iceland, which is the chief seat of the cod-fishing mountains and boiling springs, is by no means-nets are also employed; their use, however, is a fruitful country. Large tracts of the interior are really barren, being covered either by snowclad mountains or by lava wastes and plains of volcanic sand and ashes. The fertile parts of the country-though they yield rich pastures, and support large flocks of sheep and herds of ponies, besides considerable numbers of cattle, the rearing of which gives occupation and sustenance to nearly one-half of the population, and though by more energetic and economical cultivation their value might be doubled or trebleddo not and never will play such an important part in the existence and prosperity of the Icelanders as does the sea which washes their shores. It is in the sea, with its boundless and inexhaustible stores of life, that the real wealth of Iceland lies; and though the land products have been, and always will be, a considerable factor in the prosperity of the Icelanders, the chief source of their future progress must be the development of the fisheries. The principal of these is at present the cod-fishery. Immense numbers of cod and haddock are caught every year round the coasts of Iceland. The greater part is salted and exported, chiefly to Spain; a smaller portion is air-dried, and in this condition it forms a staple article of food in the country, the inland inhabitants travelling every summer long distances to the coast to secure their supplies of dried fish. Comparatively little cod is dried, as it brings a better price when salted; but haddock, halibut, skate, lumpsuckers, and codheads form the bulk of the dried product. Enormous numbers of cod-heads are dried. In this condition they form a highly valued and much-sought-after article of food, though the economy of their use may be doubted, especially when the consumer has to fetch them from a long distance with considerable expenditure of time and labour. The fishing population live for the most part on fish, fresh and dried-the salted product being almost entirely reserved for export-so that about one-half of the total catch of fish is consumed in the country.

When cured, the fish, if not immediately exported, must be carefully stored in wind and weather tight houses, as damp and draughts exercise a deteriorating effect upon them. There are no professional curers; the curing is almost entirely done at home, each fisherman, with the assistance of his family, curing his own share, and selling it to the merchants. By so doing, the fishers provide occupation for their women and children, and get a better price than they would if they sold the fish fresh. But it is certain that if the fish were cured on a large scale by professional curers, a better article would be produced. Fish intended for export to Spain must be of a certain size and quality, and are examined before shipment by skilled men appointed for the purpose by the authorities, who reject all that do not come up to the

May 23, 1885.]

standard. The rejected fish, along with small cod and haddocks, which are less valued than large cod, go for the most part to England, Denmark, and Germany. Of the other parts of the fish above mentioned, the heads and the sounds are carefully dried, the former being, as before stated, used for food in the country; while the latter are exported and made into gelatine and isinglass. The roes are salted, and exported to France and the Mediterranean, where they are used as bait in the sardine-fishery. The livers are collected and the oil extracted, first in the cold, and then by the aid of heat; the oil obtained by the latter process being coarser and of less value. As the livers are generally kept till more or less putrid before extraction, and as the whole process is extremely rough, the oil obtained is of inferior quality; hence little or no pure cod-liver oil is prepared in Iceland. The bones and offal of the fish, instead of being collected and made into fish-guano, as in Norway, are allowed to lie and rot on the beach, though a few of the more thrifty fishermen collect them to manure their fields and vegetable gardens.

The life the men lead during the fishing season is hard and toilsome in the extreme. Owing to the large numbers who come from the country, there is a very dense population on the coast during the fishing-time. The writer knows of an isolated fishing-station which affords a permanent home for some twenty-four souls, but during the fishing season has to accommodate over three hundred. The men sleep in rude huts or bothies of stone and turf, seldom weather-tight, live on the coarsest fare, and are often insufficiently clad for the rigorous weather they have to encounter, though, when at sea, they usually wear a complete wind and water tight suit of untanned sheepskin. When the fishing is good, they are almost constantly on the sea, only allowing themselves the shortest possible time for sleep and food on shore. Frequently they are surprised by sudden storms; and though their seamanship is excellent, and their boats, considering their small size and fragility, are wonderfully seaworthy, every year adds to the list of losses by drowning. They work, as a rule, extremely hard during the season, and with reason, for a good fisher may make as much in a good season as will keep him during the rest of the

three or four weeks' provisions; and return when full, or sooner, if necessitated by weather or want of food or salt. They gut and salt the fish as caught, preserving the livers, sounds, and roes, and the heads also, when practicable. On returning from each trip, the fish are landed, washed, and cured as above described, by the owner of the vessel or the merchant with whom he deals. It is probably owing to the fish being thus cured on a large scale and by experienced hands, that the smack salt fish are generally esteemed a better quality than the product of the boat-fishing.

At the close of the fishing, each man's catch is weighed separately, and along with the proportionate quantity of livers, sounds, and roes, is divided into two equal parts, the fisher getting one, and the owner of the ship the other. The fisher receives from the owner, merchant, or curer the market value of his share, after deduction of curing expenses. The owner supplies the lines and hooks, and provides the men with one warm meal daily, and coffee thrice a day; for the rest, they feed themselves. The captain, mate, and cook get their rations free; the two former have in addition various perquisites, the captain generally getting a premium of two kroner (two shillings and threepence) per hundred fish.

The advantages of smack-fishing over boatfishing are universally admitted, and only the want of the necessary capital prevents the Icelanders from increasing their fleet of fishingvessels. They pay, as a rule, extremely well. As an instance, one small vessel, costing about two hundred pounds, 'paid herself' the first season she was used, though it was only an average season. The smacks can follow the fish from place to place, while the range of the small open boats is necessarily very limited. The former can lie on the fishing-grounds and even fish in stormy weather, when the boats are unable to put to sea for days and weeks at a time; they also avoid the waste of time and labour involved in rowing to and from the fishing-ground every day. Their crews are less exposed to the weather and to the perils of the deep; and their fish are subjected to more careful treatment than those caught by the small boats. The French carry on a very large fishery from smacks round the coast of Iceland, their average catch being considerably more than the total fishing of the Icelanders; In the middle of May, the boat-fishing closes, and English, Faroese, and Norwegian smacks at least as far as the landsmen are concerned, also take a large share of the Iceland fishing. and they return to their farms. The fishermen It is computed that if the Icelanders used smacks proper, however, continue their pursuit; and now instead of small boats, employing the same number the smack-fishing begins. Smacks can of course of men as at present, their annual catch would be fish with advantage during the whole boat-fishing increased fivefold. Hand-lines alone are used on season; but it is impossible to obtain crews Icelandic smacks; but if they carried two or three sooner, as the men prefer the ordinary boats small boats, long lines-to which hundreds of during the former period. The vessels vary in baited hooks are attached-and nets could be used size from twenty to fifty tons, and are generally with equal facility when advisable. One advansloops or schooners. They are mostly old vessels tage which the open boats possess, independently bought cheap; English pleasure-yachts, Grimsby of the small amount of capital sunk in them, smacks, and French luggers, are not uncommon. is that they can be landed and drawn up on They carry twelve to twenty men, including the captain, mate, and cook, all of whom take a hand at the lines. They fish entirely by hand-line, and each man marks every fish he draws, so that at the end of the fishing each man's catch can be recognised and separated. The vessels go out with salt for a full catch and

year.

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the beach when not in use; while smacks can only be secured in a harbour. But there are a sufficient number of excellent natural harbours round the coasts of Iceland to provide both havens of refuge in stormy weather and ports in which to lay up the smacks when not in use.

Altogether, it is evident that by the employment

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