Iceland—that land of Frost and Fire, an island which, though as X large as Ireland, is, apparently, but a crust of hardened lava over a seething cauldron of the same substance, bearing on its frozen surface eternal snows and glaciers—has been this year in extraordinary commotion, socially and politically, as well as physically. It has celebrated the millenary of its colonization, and for the first time in this long period received a visit from its sovereign; while it has been so devastated of late by frequent fiery eruptions, the ashes from which destroy its pasturage—the only resource of the islanders—as to have driven them, it is said, to the desperate resolve to emigrate en masse, and leave their native land for a safer, at least, if not a more genial residence, in the far North-West of the American Continent.