There are no accessible books, of a late date, in our language, that give either an intelligible or faithful account of Iceland. The object of the following chapters has been to present a readable and truthful narrative, to create some interest in the people, the literature, and the productions of the lonely isle of the north; and of the good or ill performance of the task, the public must be the judges.
Washington City, June 1, 1854.
CHAPTER I
“And away to the North, ’mong ice-rocks stern,
And among the frozen snow;
To a land that is lone and desolate,
Will the wand’ring traveler go.”
HEIGHO! for Iceland. The little schooner “SÖLÖVEN” rides at anchor before Copenhagen. His Danish Majesty’s mails are on board, and at 4 o’clock, A. M., July 1st, we are set on deck. Yes; “we,” and a nice lot we are,—at least a round dozen, and a cabin scarcely six feet square, with only six berths and a sofa. “Every berth’s engaged,” said the captain; “and you can’t go with us.” “Yes, but I can though, if I sleep on deck.” So I ran my chance; and when sleeping hours arrived, I was stretched out on a sort of swing sofa in the middle of the cabin, suspended—like Mahomet’s coffin—between floor and skylight. As it turned out, though I took Hobson’s choice, I had altogether the best berth in the ship; the most room, and the best ventilation. So up the Cattegat we sailed, or rather down, for the current runs north, towards the German ocean. The SÖLÖVEN—Anglicé, SEA-LION—is a capital sailer, and we made good headway—the first day exactly sixteen miles; and the next morning found us fast at anchor under the guns of the far-famed castle of Elsinore. Nearly a hundred vessels were in sight, wind-bound like ourselves. “There goes a Yankee schooner!” says our skipper; and faith! right in the teeth of the wind it dashed by, with the stars and stripes flying. How the little fellow managed to get along, is more than I know; but sail it did, and it was the only craft in sight that was not at anchor. A fisherman came alongside to sell some codfish he had just caught. He asked a dollar and a half—nine marks, Danish—for about a dozen. He and the captain were a long time pushing the bargain, and finally Piscator concluded to take four marks—less than half his first price.
There’s no prospect of a fair wind, and most tantalizing it is to be cooped up in our little craft, scarce a stone’s throw from shore, and right in sight of gardens, fields, streams, and waving trees. Signalling for a pilot-boat, we soon had one along side. These water-ousels know their trade, and by a combination among them no one stirs for less than five dollars. The purse was soon made up, and we had a day at Elsinore. Indeed I enjoyed it. Didn’t “come from Wittenberg,” Horatio. No, but we came from Copenhagen. Though but twenty-four hours on board, it was a joyous sensation to touch the ground. A lot of people on the quay; sailors of all nations, land-lubbers—like your humble servant—merchants, pilots, idlers, and various other specimens of the genus homo. One nut-brown looking chap, with the round jacket and flowing trowsers that gave the unmistakable stamp of his profession, rolling the quid in his cheek, and looking at me, sings out, “Old England forever!” “Yes,” says I, “and America a day longer.”
Here, at Elsinore, are six or seven thousand people, who subsist on contrary winds, shipwrecks, pilotage, and that celebrated “toll”—a mere five-dollar bill, only—that all vessels pay that trade in the Baltic. Danish vessels pay nothing. If a foreign vessel passes here without paying, at Copenhagen she has to pay double. This toll has been paid for over 500 years; and for this consideration, I am informed, the Danish government keep up the light-houses that guide the mariner in and out of the Baltic. It is not as heavy as the light-house fees of most other nations. This place is sacred to Shakspeare, and Hamlet, Prince of Denmark, and Ophelia, “the beautified Ophelia”—an “ill phrase” that, a “vile phrase,” says old Polonius; and their names still live, albeit their imperial persons,