—————“dead and turned to clay,
Might stop a hole to keep the wind away.”
All this the Danes seem to remember, for two splendid steamers, the “HAMLET” and the “OPHELIA,” run regularly between here and Copenhagen; and as if to disprove the poet’s account, they run in unison with one another. We soon found our way to the castle, about half a mile from town, through a long, shady walk overhung with trees. Somehow, when we read of the castle of Elsinore, and of Bernardo and Francisco keeping sentry before it, and the platform, and the ghost appearing there, it hardly seems as if it was a real castle that we could now see and visit, and climb over, and withal find sentries keeping guard over! But here it is, and as substantial and real as that of Britain’s queen at Windsor. I spent an hour on its lofty battlements. Here, too, is the “ordnance,” such as the small-beer critics are always abusing Shakspeare for having “shot off.” Yes, the theater manager, actor, and dramatist, in his play of Hamlet, adds to his text, “ordnance shot off within”—while these small-fry scribblers cry out “anachronism.” Yes, they have found out the wonderful fact that king Hamlet reigned here about the year 1200, while gunpowder—“thy humane discovery, Friar Bacon!”—was unknown for more than a hundred years after. Go to: yes, go to Elsinore, and now you’ll find ordnance enough to fire off, and blow up all the paltry criticism that has been fired at Shakspeare since he first lampooned Sir Thomas Lucy.
The castle of Elsinore stands close beside the water, the big guns sticking out directly over the Cattegat. On the land side it is defended by bastions, cannon, moat, gates, and draw-bridge. The castle covers, perhaps, two acres of ground, inclosing a hollow square or court yard in the center. It is unlike any other castellated pile I have ever seen. At the corners are towers of different heights; the tallest one is about 175 feet high, and looks like a pile of Dutch cheeses, the largest at the bottom. The party I was with were all Danes; and, though their language is cousin-German to our Anglo-Saxon, and I could in part understand it, as if “native and to the manor born,” yet I preferred my own. With another party was a very pretty and intelligent German girl, who spoke English, and was acquainted with the place; and to her I was indebted for the best vivâ voce account that I had. We were first taken into the chapel, a small and very neat place of worship in the south-east angle of the castle. The glaring and rather gaudy style of the coats of arms of the royal and noble families whose dead are here, gave it something of a gingerbread appearance; but otherwise I liked it. I looked in vain for a monument to Mr. Shakspeare’s hero. Could I have found that skull of Yorick, “the king’s jester,” I think I should have carried it off as a sacred relic, and made a present of it to Ned Forrest. Alas! no Yorick, no Hamlet, no Polonius—not one of their “pictures in little,” nor even a slab to their memory, could I see. We ascended one of the corner towers—used as a light-house and observatory, and provided with telescopes—from whence we had a fine view of the Cattegat, the island of Zeeland, and the lofty range of Swedish mountains on the opposite coast. Directly across the strait, some three miles distant, is the Swedish town of Helsingborg, a place about the size of Elsinore. The prominent object in it is a tall square tower, probably the steeple of a church. In one room of the castle, where I could fancy the “melancholy Dane” in his “inky cloak,” the Queen, with “her husband’s brother,” and Rosencrantz and Guildernstern, and old blear-eyed Polonius, too, there was a broad fire-place, with the mantel-piece supported by caryatidæ on each side. When some of our scenic artists are painting “a room in the castle” of Elsinore, for a scene in Hamlet, if they have no better guide, they may remember the above slight description, if they please. Any traveler visiting Elsinore, will find this room in the northeast corner of the castle, and on the second or third floor. We walked out on the ramparts, and saw a few soldiers: wonder if any of them have the name of Bernardo or Francisco! The men on guard were lolling lazily about, not walking back and forth like English or American sentries. The smooth-mown embankments, the well-mounted guns, and the “ball-piled pyramid,” with the neat appearance of the soldiers, showed the good condition in which the castle is kept. No marks of ruin or decay are visible. I tried to find some musket bullet, or something besides a mere pebble, that I could take away as a souvenir, but I could get nothing. A woman was in attendance in the chapel, but no one accompanied us about the castle; no gratuities were asked, no “guides” proffered their obsequious services; but I believe the German party knew the locality, for we found “open sesame” on every latch. I thanked the fair German for her explanation; and we walked to town, back, through the avenue of trees. At four we went to a hotel, and had a capital dinner. I then strolled about the place, looked at the “sights”—all there were to be found—went to a book-store and a toy-shop, and bought some prints and some little porcelain dolls.
A very merry day I’ve had at Elsinore, on the firm earth; and now for the rocking ship. Yes, a pleasant day we’ve had, but perhaps we shall pay for it hereafter.
Our voyage through the Cattegat had all the delay and uncertainty that ever attends these waters. Strong currents and light and contrary winds make the passage slow; but it is usually far easier coming out than going into the Baltic. In a few days we were north of the German ocean, beating along the Norway coast with a northwest wind. We passed for two days near the land, and had a good view of the bold mountain scenery northwest of Christiansand. Long piles of mountains, reaching often clear to the water’s edge, showed a poor country for cultivation. The most distant were covered with snow, but the nearest were all of that deep brown tint that reveals a scanty vegetation. Sometimes the strip of green meadow land near the water had a house on it here and there; and once or twice villages of twenty or thirty buildings were seen, all built of wood, and covered with red tiles. We saw none of those famous forests of Norway pine, where the ship timber grows, and which English ship-builders tell you is “from the Baltic.” These must be in the interior. On the fourth of July I was determined to have some fun. The captain had two small cannon on board, and I asked him if I might have some powder to wake up my patriotism. Yes, he was quite willing. I produced some of the good things needful, lemons, sugar, et cetera, and told the captain to mix a monster bowl of punch. He was good at it; the punch was capital, and was soon smoking on the table. Our cannon were iron pieces, not quite heavy enough to knock down the walls of Badajos, but still of size sufficient for our purpose. They were mounted on each side of the vessel, and revolved on swivels. The powder was furnished, and we banged away, waking up the echoes of liberty from all the Norwegian mountains. I have no doubt but the pilots along the shore were considerably astonished. Now, says the captain, we want the oration. So up I jumped to the top of the boom, and in about nine minutes and a quarter, gave them the whole account of the cause, the means, and the manner of Brother Jonathan “lickin’ the Britishers.” The captain translated it for the benefit of the Danish and Icelandic passengers, and they applauded both the orator and translator. The punch was glorious, the oration was undoubtedly a grand one, the cannon spoke up their loudest; and altogether, for a celebration got up by one live Yankee, it probably has never been surpassed since Burgoyne’s surrender at Saratoga. It was a most beautiful evening, and very pleasing to think that at that very hour millions of my countrymen, far far away over the plains and valleys of my native land, were enjoying the festivities of a day, the events of which will be remembered till time shall be no more.
The weather was pleasant for some days, and we were gradually wafted towards the northwest. Vessels bound to the southwest of Iceland, from Denmark, generally sail near Fair Isle, passing between the Shetlands and the Orkneys. We were carried much further north, the ninth day finding us near the lofty cliffs of the Faroes. I thought after getting past the parallel of 60° north, in the latitude of Greenland, that the weather would be perceptibly colder; and probably it would with the wind constantly from the west or northwest; but with a southwest breeze we had mild, pleasant, summer weather. Sea-birds, particularly gulls, were our constant companions, and while near the Faroe Isles they came about us in immense numbers. One day one of these lubberly children of the ocean tumbled down on the deck, and to save his life he couldn’t rise again. He was on an exploring expedition, and I’ve no doubt he learned something. He didn’t seem to admire the arrangements about our ship very much, and altogether he seemed out of his element. We had one or two confounded ugly women on board, and I don’t think he liked the looks of them very much. I pitied his case, and raising him up in the air, he took wing and soared away. No doubt he will ever retain pleasant recollections of his Yankee acquaintance, one of a race, who, enjoying their own liberty, greatly like to see others enjoy it too. We had a fine view of the magnificent cliffs of the Faroe Isles, some of them nearly three thousand feet high. They are basaltic, and often columnar, looking much like the cliffs about the Giant’s Causeway and Fingal’s Cave at Staffa, but far higher.
We continued our course to the westward, lost sight of land, and for some days were floating on a smooth sea, with very little wind. How destitute of shipping is the Northern ocean! For near two weeks we did not see a sail. Whales frequently came near the vessel, blowing water from their spout like a jet from a fountain. In my travels by sea I had never seen a whale before, and I looked on their gambols with much interest. The sight of them very naturally called up the words of the good old New-England hymn:
“Ye monsters of the bubbling deep,
Your Maker’s praises spout;