4 
LETTERS FROM HIGH LATITUDES. 
As most educated English people firmly believe 
the Icelanders to be a “Squawmuck,” blubber-eating, 
seal-skin-clad race, I think it right to tell you that 
Sigurdr is apparelled in good broad cloth, and all 
the inconveniencies of civilization, his costume culmi¬ 
nating in the orthodox chimney-pot of the nineteenth 
century. He is about twenty-seven, very intelligent 
looking, and—all women would think—lovely to behold. 
A high forehead, straight, delicate features, dark blue 
eyes, auburn hair and beard, and the complexion of— 
Lady S-d! His early life was passed in Iceland; 
but he is now residing at Copenhagen as a law student. 
Through the introduction of a mutual friend, he has 
been induced to come with me, and do us the honours 
of his native land. 
“ 0 wliar will I get a skeely skipper, 
To sail this glide ship o’ mine F” 
Such, alas! has been the burden of my song for these 
last four-and-twenty hours, as I have sat in the Tontine 
Tower, drinking the bad port wine; for, after spend¬ 
ing a fortune in telegraphic messages to Holyhead, it 
has been decided that B-- cannot come on, and I 
