Flugumýri, where her young bridegroom lost his life. But there is nothing in his story to show that he takes a side. He follows the custom of the old Sagas, which is, to let the characters alone and never allow the showman to come forward with his explanations and opinions. This Icelandic habit is not dullness or want of sense. It is a kind of imagination, and it is shown in their way of narrating things so as to get the most vivid effect. You see a boat putting out from an island, or a party of men riding along the shore; you do not know whether they are friends or enemies until you go to find out. Two people of importance are talking business; a messenger comes to one of them and speaks with him apart; then he turns to his business again and you find that there is a change of some sort; the messenger has told him something of interest, and you see this in his face and his conduct before you get it explained. The vague fact growing clearer, that is the Icelandic rule of story-telling, the invariable plan; it would be a mannerism, if it were not so much alive. Mannerisms are lazy things, dodges for getting along easily without thought; but this Icelandic form is exacting and not easy; the right use of it means that the author is awake and interested.
It is impossible here to give any proper account of Sturla's Icelandic memoirs, and I shall not quote from his chronicle of slaughter and house-burnings. But there are other passages in his work besides those 'high facinorous things', as the Elizabethan poet might have called them; there are intervals of comedy.
There is a scene between Sighvat and his son, Sturla, which is very pleasant to think about; the father reading the son's character, playing on his vanity, and drawing him on gradually to a comic trap. The young man had
