A man hiking along
TRAVELING ON FOOT.
Keeping along the banks of the Gula, the road winds around the sides of the hills, sometimes crossing open valleys, and occasionally penetrating the shady recesses of the pine forests, till it diverges from the river at Meelhus. Soon after leaving this station the views from the higher points over which the road passes are of great beauty and extent, embracing a glimpse, from time to time, of the great Trondhjem Fjord.
Night overtook me at the pretty little station of Esp. Next morning I was up bright and early, and, after a cup of coffee and some rolls, shouldered my knapsack and pushed on to Trondhjem.
Finding my purse growing lighter every day, I was compelled at this point to cut short my intended journey to the North Cape, and take the first steamer down the coast for Christiansund and Hamburg.
Arrived once more at the family head-quarters in Frankfort-on-the-Main, I spent a few months writing up the loose material I had thus gathered, and making foot-tours through the Odenwald, the Spessart, and the Schwartzwald. But I was not satisfied with what I had seen of the North. There was still a wild region, far beyond any explorations I had yet made, which constantly loomed up in my imagination—the chaotic land of frost and fire, where dwelt in ancient times the mighty Thor, the mystic deity of the Scandinavians.
Not many years have passed since it was considered something of an achievement to visit Iceland. The traveler who had the hardihood to penetrate the chilly fogs of the North, and journey by the compass through a region of everlasting snows and desolating fires, could well afford to stay at home during the remainder of his life, satisfied with the reputation generally accorded him by his fellow-men. It was something to have plunged into rivers of unknown depth, and traversed treacherous bogs and desert fjelds of lava—something to be able to speak knowingly of the learned Sagas, and verify the wonders of the Burned Njal.
An isolated spot of earth, bordering on the Arctic Circle, and cut off by icebergs and frozen seas from all intercourse with the civilized world during half the year, oncethe seat of an enlightened republic, and still inhabited by the descendants of men who had worshiped Odin and Thor, must surely have presented rare attractions to the enterprising traveler before it became a beaten track for modern tourists. A simple narrative of facts was then sufficient to enlist attention. Even the unlearned adventurer could obtain a reputation by an unvarnished recital of what he saw and heard. He could describe the Lögberg upon which the republican Parliament held its sittings, and attest from personal observation that this was the exact spot where judgments were pronounced by theThing. He could speak familiarly of heathen gods and vikings after a brief intercourse with the inhabitants, who are still tinctured with the spirit of their early civilization. He could tell of frightful volcanoes, that fill the air with clouds of ashes, and desolate the earth with burning floods of lava, and of scalding hot water shot up out of subterranean boilers, and gaping fissures that emit sulphurous vapors, and strange sounds heard beneath the earth’s surface, and all the marvelous experiences of Icelandic travel, including ghosts and hobgoblins that ramble over the icy wastes by night, and hide themselves in gloomy caverns by day—these he could dwell upon in earnest and homely language with the pleasing certainty of an appreciative audience. But times have sadly changed within the past few years. A trip to Iceland nowadays is little more than a pleasant summer excursion, brought within the capacity of every tyro in travel through the leveling agency of steam. When a Parisian lady of rank visits Spitzbergen, and makes the overland journey from the North Cape to the Gulf of Bothnia, of what avail is it for any gentleman of elegant leisure to leave his comfortable fireside? We tourists who are ambitious to see the world in an easy way need but sit in our cushioned chair, cosily smoking our cigar, while some enterprising lady puts a girdle round about the earth; for we may depend upon it she will reappear ere leviathan can swim a league, and present us with abouquet of wonderful experiences, neatly pressed between the pages of an entertaining volume. The icebergs of the Arctic, the bananas of the tropics, the camels of the East, the buffaloes of the West, and the cannibals of the South, are equally at our service. We can hold the mountains, rivers, seas, and human races between our finger and thumb, and thus, as we gently dally with care, we may see the wonders of the world as in a pleasant dream. Thus may we enjoy the perils and hardships of travel at a very small sacrifice of personal comfort.
A small encampment of three men watch as the geyser spouts water
THE GREAT GEYSER.
It was somewhat in this style that I reasoned when the idea occurred to me of making a trip to Iceland. From all accounts it was a very uncomfortable country, deficient in roads, destitute of hotels, and subject to various eccentricities of climate. Neither fame nor money was to be gained by such a trip—unless, indeed, I succeeded in catching the great auk, for which, it is said, the directors of the British Museum have offered a reward of a hundred pounds. This was a chance, to be sure. I might possibly be able to get hold of the auk, and thereby secure money enough to pay expenses, and make certain a niche in the temple of fame. It would be something to rank with the great men who had devoted their lives to the pursuit of the dodo and the roc. But there was a deplorable lack of information about the haunts and habits of the auk. I was not even satisfied of its existence, by the fact that two Englishmen visited Iceland a few years ago for the purpose of securing a specimen of this wonderful bird, and, after six weeks of unavailing search, wrote a book to prove that there was still reason to hope for success.
Upon the whole, I thought it would not do to depend upon the auk. There was but one opening left—to visit Iceland, sketch-book in hand, and faithfully do what others had left undone—make accurate sketches of the mountains, rivers, lava-fjelds, geysers, people, and costumes. In nothing is Iceland so deficient as in pictorial representation. It has been very minutely surveyed bythe Danes, and Olsen has left nothing to wish for in the way of topographical delineation, but artists do not seem to have found it an attractive field for the exercise of their talent. At least I could obtain no good pictures of Iceland in Copenhagen. The few indifferent sketches published there, and in the journals of late English and German tourists, afford no adequate idea of the country. I have seen nothing of the kind any where that impressed my mind with the slightest notion of that land of fire, or the spirit and genius of Icelandic life. It would therefore be some gain to the cause of knowledge if I could present to five hundred thousand of my fellow-citizens, who do their traveling through these illuminated pages, a reasonably fair delineation of the country and the people, with such simple record of my own experiences as would render the sketches generally intelligible.
So one fine morning in May I shouldered my knapsack, and bade a temporary adieu to my friends in Frankfort. By night I was in Hamburg. The next day was agreeably spent in rambling about the gardens across the Alster Basin, and at 5 P.M. I left Altona for Kiel, a journey of three hours by rail across a flat and not very interesting tract of country within the limits of Schleswig-Holstein. From Kiel a steamer leaves for Korsör, on the island of Zealand, the terminus of the Copenhagen Railway. This is the most direct route between Hamburg and Copenhagen, though the trip may be very pleasantly varied by taking a steamer to Taars, and passing by diligence through the islands of Lalland, Falster, and Möen.
A few days after my arrival in Copenhagen I had the pleasure of making the acquaintance of Professor Andersen, of the Scandinavian Museum, a native Icelander, who very kindly showed me the chief objects of curiosityobtained from the Danish possessions in the North, consisting mostly of fish and geological specimens. The Minister of the Judiciary obligingly gave me a letter to the governor and principal amtmen of Iceland, and many other gentlemen of influence manifested the most friendly interest in my proposed undertaking. I was especially indebted to Captain Södring, late owner of theFox, of Arctic celebrity, for much valuable information respecting the Northern seas, as well as for his cordial hospitality and indefatigable efforts to make my sojourn in Copenhagen both agreeable and profitable. Indeed, I was delighted with the place and the people. The Danes are exceedingly genial in their manners, distinguished alike for their simplicity and intelligence. There is no trouble to which they will not put themselves to oblige a stranger. In my rambles through the public libraries and museums I was always accompanied by some professor attached to the institution, who took the greatest pains to explain every thing, and impress me with a favorable idea of the value of the collection. This was not a mere formal matter of duty; many of them spent hours and even days in the performance of their friendly labors, omitting nothing that might contribute to my enjoyment as a stranger. The visitor who can not spend his time agreeably in such society, surrounded by such institutions as Thorwaldsen’s Museum and the National Collection of Scandinavian Antiquities, must be difficult to please indeed. The Tivoli or the Dyrhave, an evening at Fredericksberg, or a trip to “Hamlet’s Grave” at Elsineur, would surely fill the measure of his contentment. Whether in the way of beautiful gardens, public amusements, charming excursions, or agreeable and intelligent society, I know of no European capital that can surpass Copenhagen. Our excellent minister, Mr. Wood, with whom I had the pleasure of spending an evening at Elsineur, speaks in the most complimentary terms of the Danes and their customs, and expresses some surprise, considering the general increase of European travel fromour country, that so few American tourists visit Denmark.
I could not do myself the injustice to leave Copenhagen without forming the personal acquaintance of a man to whom a debt of gratitude is due by the young and the old in all countries—the ramblers in fairy-land, the lovers of romance, and the friends of humanity—all who can feel the divine influence of genius, and learn, through the teachings of a kindly heart, that the inhabitants of earth are
“Kindred by one holy tie”—
“Kindred by one holy tie”—
the quaint, pathetic, genial Hans Christian Andersen. Not wishing to impose any obligation of courtesy on him by a letter of introduction or the obliging services of my Danish friends, I called at his house unattended, and merely sent in my name and address. Unfortunately he was out taking his morning walk, and would not be back till the afternoon. By calling at three o’clock, the servant said, I would be very likely to find him at home. I then added to my card the simple fact that I was an American traveler on my way to Iceland for the purpose of making some sketches of the country, and would take the liberty of calling at the appointed hour. It may be a matter of interest to an American reader to have some idea of the peculiar neighborhood and style of house in which a great Danish author has chosen to take up his abode. The city of Copenhagen, it should be borne in mind, is intersected by canals which, during the summer months, are crowded with small trading vessels from Sweden and Jutland, and fishing-smacks from the neighboring islands and coast of Norway. The wharves bordering on these canals present an exceedingly animated appearance. Peasants, sailors, traders, and fishermen, in every variety of costume, are gathered in groups, enjoying a social gossip, or interchanging their various products and wares, and strawberries from Amak and fish from the Skager-Rack mingle their odors. In the second story of a dingy and dilapidated house, fronting one ofthese unsavory canals, a confused pile of dirty, shambling old tenements in the rear, and a curious medley of fish and fishermen, sloops and schooners, mud-scows and skiffs in front, lives the world-renowned author, Hans Christian Andersen. I say he lives there, but, properly speaking, he only lodges. It seems to be a peculiarity of his nature to move about from time to time into all the queer and uninviting places possible to be discovered within the limits of Copenhagen—not where
“The mantling vineLays forth her grape and gently creepsLuxuriant,”
“The mantling vineLays forth her grape and gently creepsLuxuriant,”
but where the roughest, noisiest, busiest, and fishiest of an amphibious population is to be found. Here it is, apparently amid the most incongruous elements, that he draws from all around him the most delicate traits of human nature, and matures for the great outer world the most exquisite creations of his fancy. It is purely a labor of love in which he spends his life. The products of his pen have furnished him with ample means to live in elegant style, surrounded by all the allurements of rank and fashion, but he prefers the obscurity of a plain lodging amid the haunts of those classes whose lives and pursuits he so well portrays. Here he cordially receives all who call upon him, and they are not few. Pilgrims of every condition in life and from all nations do homage to his genius, yet, valuable as his time is, he finds enough to spare for the kindly reception of his visitors. His only household companions appear to be two old peasant women, whom he employs as domestics; weather-beaten and decrepit old creatures, with faces and forms very much like a pair of antiquated nut-crackers. He occupies only two or three rooms plainly furnished, and apparently lives in the simplest and most abstemious style.
When I called according to directions, one of the ancient nut-crackers merely pointed to the door, and said she thought Herr Andersen was in, but didn’t know. I could knock there and try; so I knocked. Presently Iheard a rapid step, and the door was thrown open. Before me stood the tall, thin, shambling, raw-boned figure of a man a little beyond the prime of life, but not yet old, with a pair of dancing gray eyes and a hatchet-face, all alive with twists, and wrinkles, and muscles; a long, lean face, upon which stood out prominently a great nose, diverted by a freak of nature a little to one side, and flanked by a tremendous pair of cheek-bones, with great hollows underneath. Innumerable ridges and furrows swept semicircularly downward around the corners of a great mouth—a broad, deep, rugged fissure across the face, that might have been mistaken for the dreadful child-trap of an ogre but for the sunny beams of benevolence that lurked around the lips, and the genial humanity that glimmered from every nook and turn. Neither mustache nor beard obscured the strong individuality of this remarkable face, which for the most part was of a dull granite color, a little mixed with limestone and spotted with patches of porphyry. A dented gutta-percha forehead, very prominent about the brows, and somewhat resembling in its general topography a raised map of Switzerland, sloped upward and backward to the top of the head; not a very large head, but wonderfully bumped and battered by the operations of the brain, and partially covered by a mop of dark wavy hair, a little thin in front and somewhat grizzled behind; a long, bony pair of arms, with long hands on them; a long, lank body, with a long black coat on it; a long, loose pair of legs, with long boots on the feet, all in motion at the same time—all shining, and wriggling, and working with an indescribable vitality, a voice bubbling up from the vast depths below with cheery, spasmodic, and unintelligible words of welcome—this was the wonderful man that stood before me, the great Danish improvisator, the lover of little children, the gentle Caliban who dwells among fairies and holds sweet converse with fishes, and frogs, and beetles! I would have picked him out from among a thousand men at the first glance as a candidate forCongress, or the proprietor of a tavern, if I had met him any where in the United States. But the resemblance was only momentary. In the quaint awkwardness of his gestures and the simplicity of his speech there was a certain refinement not usually found among men of that class. Something in the spontaneous and almost childlike cordiality of his greeting; the unworldly impulsiveness of his nature, as he grasped both my hands in his, patted me affectionately on the shoulder, and bade me welcome, convinced me in a moment that this was no other, and could be no other, than Hans Christian Andersen.
“Come in! come in!” he said, in a gush of broken English; “come in and sit down. You are very welcome. Thank you—thank you very much. I am very glad to see you. It is a rare thing to meet a traveler all the way from California—quite a surprise. Sit down! Thank you!”
And then followed a variety of friendly compliments and remarks about the Americans. He liked them; he was sorry they were so unfortunate as to be engaged in a civil war, but hoped it would soon be over. Did I speak French? he asked, after a pause. Not very well. Or German? Still worse, was my answer. “What a pity!” he exclaimed; “it must trouble you to understand my English, I speak it so badly. It is only within a few years that I have learned to speak it at all.” Of course I complimented him upon his English, which was really better than I had been led to expect. “Can you understand it?” he asked, looking earnestly in my face. “Certainly,” I answered, “almost every word.” “Oh, thank you—thank you. You are very good,” he cried, grasping me by the hand. “I am very much obliged to you for understanding me.” I naturally thanked him for being obliged to me, and we shook hands cordially, and mutually thanked one another over again for being so amiable. The conversation, if such it could be called, flew from subject to subject with a rapidity that almosttook my breath away. The great improvisator dashed recklessly into every thing that he thought would be interesting to an American traveler, but with the difficulty of his utterance in English, and the absence of any knowledge on his part of my name or history, it was evident he was a little embarrassed in what way to oblige me most; and the trouble on my side was, that I was too busy listening to find time for talking.
“Dear! dear! And you are going to Iceland!” he continued. “A long way from California! I would like to visit America, but it is very dangerous to travel by sea. A vessel was burned up not long since, and many of my friends were lost. It was a dreadful affair.”
From this he diverged to a trip he then had in contemplation through Switzerland and Spain. He was sitting for his statuette, which he desired to leave as a memento to his friends prior to his departure. A young Danish sculptor was making it. Would I like to see it? and forthwith I was introduced to the young Danish sculptor. The likeness was very good, and my comments upon it elicited many additional thanks and several squeezes of the hand—it was so kind of me to be pleased with it! “He is a young student,” said Andersen, approvingly; “a very good young man. I want to encourage him. He will be a great artist some day or other.”
Talking of likenesses reminded me of a photograph which I had purchased a few days before, and to which I now asked the addition of an autograph.
A pen portrait of Hans Christian Andersen, with his signature underneath
“Oh, you have a libel on me here!” cried the poet, laughing joyously—“a very bad likeness. Wait! I have several much better; here they are—” And he rushed into the next room, tumbled over a lot of papers, and ransacked a number of drawers till he found the desired package—“here’s a dozen of them; take your choice; help yourself—as many as you please!” While looking over the collection, I said the likeness of one who had done so much to promote the happiness of some littlefriends I had at home would be valued beyond measure; that I knew at least half a dozen youngsters who were as well acquainted with the “Little Match Girl,” and the “Ugly Duck,” and the “Poor Idiot Boy,” as he was himself, and his name was as familiar in California as it was in Denmark. At this he grasped both my hands, and looking straight in my face with a kind of ecstatic expression, said, “Oh, is it possible? Do they really read my books in California? so far away! Oh! I thank you very much. Some of my stories, I am aware, have been published in New York, but I did not think they had found their way to the Pacific Coast. Dear me! Thankyou! thank you! Have you seen my last—the—what do you call it in English?—a little animal—”
“Mouse,” I suggested.
“No, not a mouse; a little animal with wings.”
“Oh, a bat!”
“Nay, nay, a little animal with wings and many legs. Dear me! I forget the name in English, but you certainly know it in America—a very small animal!”
In vain I tried to make a selection from all the little animals of my acquaintance with wings and many legs. The case was getting both embarrassing and vexatious. At length a light broke upon me.
“A musquito!” I exclaimed, triumphantly.
“Nay, nay!” cried the bothered poet; “a little animal with a hard skin on its back. Dear me, I can’t remember the name!”
“Oh, I have it now,” said I, really desirous of relieving his mind—“a flea!”
Andersen's creature
At this the great improvisator scratched his head, looked at the ceiling and then at the floor, after which he took several rapid strides up and down the room, and struck himself repeatedly on the forehead. Suddenly grasping up a pen, he exclaimed, somewhat energetically, “Here! I’ll draw it for you;” and forthwith he drew on a scrap of paper a diagram, of which the accompanying engraving is a fac-simile.
“A tumble-bug!” I shouted, astonished at my former stupidity.
The poet looked puzzled and distressed. Evidently I had not yet succeeded. What could it be?
“A beetle!” I next ventured to suggest, rather disappointed at the result of my previous guess.
“A beetle! A beetle!—that’s it; now I remember—a beetle!” and the delighted author of “The Beetle” patted me approvingly on the back, and chuckledgleefully at his own adroit method of explanation. “I’ll give you ‘The Beetle,’” he said; “you shall have the only copy in my possession. But you don’t read Danish! What are we to do? There is a partial translation in French—a mere notice.”
“No matter,” I answered. “A specimen of the Danish language will be very acceptable, and the book will be a pleasant souvenir of my visit.”
He then darted into the next room, tumbled over a dozen piles of books, then out again, ransacked the desks, and drawers, and heaps of old papers and rubbish, talking all the time in his joyous, cheery way about his books and his travels in Jutland, and his visit to Charles Dickens, and his intended journey through Spain, and his delight at meeting a traveler all the way from California, and whatever else came into his head—all in such mixed-up broken English that the meaning must have been utterly lost but for the wonderful expressiveness of his face and the striking oddity of his motions. It came to me mesmerically. He seemed like one who glowed all over with bright and happy thoughts, which permeated all around him with a new intelligence. His presence shed a light upon others like the rays that beamed from the eyes of “Little Sunshine.” The book was found at last, and when he had written his name in it, with a friendly inscription, and pressed both my hands on the gift, and patted me once more on the shoulder, and promised to call at Frankfort on his return from Switzerland to see his little friends who knew all about the “Ugly Duck” and the “Little Match Girl,” I took my leave, more delighted, if possible, with the author than I had ever before been with his books. Such a man, the brightest, happiest, simplest, most genial of human beings, is Hans Christian Andersen.
The steamerArcturuswas advertised to sail for Reykjavik on the 4th of June, so it behooved me to be laying in some sort of an outfit for the voyage during the few days that intervened. A knapsack, containing a changeof linen and my sketching materials, was all I possessed. This would have been sufficient but for the probability of rain and cold weather. I wanted a sailor’s monkey-jacket and an overall. My friend Captain Södring would not hear of my buying any thing in that way. He had enough on hand from his old whaling voyages, he said, to fit out a dozen men of my pattern. Just come up to the house and take a look at them, and if there wasn’t too much oil on them, I was welcome to the whole lot; but the oil, he thought, would be an advantage—it would keep out the water. In vain I protested—it was no use—the captain was an old whaler, and so was I, and when two old whalers met, it was a pity if they couldn’t act like shipmates on the voyage of life. There was no resisting this appeal, so I agreed to accept the old clothes. When we arrived at the captain’s house he disappeared in the garret, but presently returned bearing a terrific pile of rubbish on his shoulders, and accompanied by a stout servant-girl also heavily laden with marine curiosities. There were sou’westers, and tarpaulins, and skull-caps; frieze jackets, and overalls, and hickory shirts; tarpaulin coats, and heavy sea-boots, and duck blouses with old bunches of oakum sticking out of the pockets; there were coils of rope-yarn well tarred, and jack-knives in leather cases, still black with whale-gurry: and a few telescopes and log-glasses. “Take ’em all,” said the captain. “They smell a little fishy, but no matter. It’s all the better for a voyage to Iceland. You’ll be used to the smell before you get to Reykjavik; and it’s wholesome—very wholesome! Nothing makes a man so fat.” I made a small selection—a rough jacket and a few other essential articles. “Nonsense, man!” roared the captain, “take ’em all! You’ll find them useful; and if you don’t, you can heave them overboard or give them to the sailors.” And thus was I fitted out for the voyage.
TheArcturusis a small screw steamer owned by Messrs. Koch and Henderson, and now some six years on the route between Copenhagen and Reykjavik. The Danish government pays them an annual sum for carrying the mails, and they control a considerable trade in fish and wool. This vessel makes six trips every year, touching at a port in Scotland both on the outer and return voyage. At first she made Leith her stopping-place; but, owing to superior facilities for her business at Grangemouth, she now stops at that port. The cost of passage is extremely moderate—only 45 Danish dollars, about $28 American, living on board 75 cents a day, and a small fee to the steward, making for the voyage out or back, which usually occupies about eleven days, inclusive of stoppages, something less than $40. I mention this for the benefit of my friends at home, who may think proper to make a very interesting trip at a very small expense; though, as will hereafter appear, the most considerable part of the expenditure occurs in Iceland. Captain Andersen (they are all Andersens, or Jonasens, or Hansens, or Petersens in Denmark), a very active and obliging little Dane, commands theArcturus. He speaks English fluently, and is an experienced seaman; and if the tourist is not unusually fastidious about accommodations, there will be no difficulty in making an agreeable voyage. I found every thing on board excellent; the fare abundant and wholesome, and the sleeping-quarters not more like coffins than they usually are on board small steamers. A few inches cut off the passengers’ legs or added to the length of the berths, and a few extra handspikes in the lee scuppers to steady the vessel, would bean improvement; but then one can’t have every thing to suit him. Some grumbling took place, to be sure, after our departure from Scotland. A young Scotchman wanted a berth for a big dog in the same cabin with the rest of his friends, which the captain would not permit; an Englishman was disgusted with the “beastly fare;” and an old Danish merchant would persist in shaving himself at the public table every day—all of which caused an under-current of dissatisfaction during the early part of the voyage. Sea-sickness, however, put an end to it before long, and things went on all right after that.
But I must not anticipate my narrative. The scene upon leaving the wharf at Copenhagen was amusing and characteristic. For some hours before our departure the decks were crowded with the friends of the passengers. Every person had to kiss and hug every other person, and shake hands, and laugh and cry a little, and then hug and kiss again, without regard to age and not much distinction of sex. Some natural tears, of course, must always be shed on occasions of this kind. It was rather a melancholy reflection, as I stood aloof looking on at all these demonstrations of affection, that there was nobody present to grieve over my departure—not even a lapdog to bestow upon me a parting kiss. Waving of handkerchiefs, messages to friends in Iceland, and parting benedictions, took place long before we left the wharf. At length the last bells were rung, the lingering loved ones were handed ashore, and the inexorable voice of the captain was heard ordering the sailors to cast loose the ropes. We were fairly off for Iceland!
In a few hours we passed, near Elsineur, the fine old Castle of Kronberg, built in the time of Tycho Brahe, once the prison of the unfortunate Caroline Matilda, queen of Christian VII., and in the great vaults of which it is said the Danish Roland, Holger Dansk, still lives, his long white beard grown fast to a stone table. We were soon out of the Sound, plowing our way toward the famous Skager-Rack. The weather had been showery and threateningfor some time. It now began to rain and blow in good earnest.
We had on board only thirteen passengers, chiefly Danes and Icelanders. Among them was a newly-appointed amtman for the district of Reykjaness, with a very accomplished young wife. He was going to spend the honey-moon amid the glaciers and lava-fjelds of Iceland. It seemed a dreary prospect for so young and tender a bride, but she was cheerful and happy, except when the inevitable hour of sea-sickness came. Love, I suppose, can make the wilderness blossom as the rose, and shed a warmth over ice-covered mountains and a pleasant verdure over deserts of lava. A very agreeable and intelligent young man, Mr. Jonasen, son of the governor, was also on board. I saw but little of him during the passage—only his head over the side of his berth; but I heard from him frequently after the weather became rough. If there was any inside left in that young man by the time we arrived at Reykjavik, it must have been badly strained. As a son of Iona he completely reversed the scriptural order of things; for, instead of being swallowed by a great fish, and remaining in the belly thereof three days and nights, he swallowed numerous sprats and sardines himself, yet would never allow them internal accommodations for the space of three minutes. My room-mate was a young Icelandic student, who had been to the college at Copenhagen, and was now returning to his native land to die. There was something very sad in his case. He had left home a few years before with the brightest prospects of success. Ambitious and talented, he had devoted himself with unwearied assiduity to his studies, but the activity of his mind was too much for a naturally feeble constitution. Consumption set its seal upon him. Given up by the physicians in Copenhagen, he was returning to breathe his last in the arms of a loving mother.
On the second morning after leaving the Sound we passed close along the Downs of Jutland, a barren shore,singularly diversified by great mounds of sand. The wind sweeping in from the ocean casts up the loose sands that lie upon this low peninsula, and drifts them against some bush or other obstacle sufficiently firm to form a nucleus. In the course of a few years, by constant accumulations, this becomes a vast mound, sometimes over a hundred feet high. Nearly the whole of Northern Jutland is diversified with sand-plains, heaths, and ever-changing mounds, among which wandering bands of gipsies still roam. The shores along the Skagen are surrounded by dangerous reefs of quicksand, stretching for many miles out into the ocean. Navigation at this point is very difficult, especially in the winter, when terrific gales prevail from the northwest. The numerous stakes, buoys, and other water-marks by which the channel is designated, the frequency of light-houses and signal telegraphs, and the wrecks that lie strewn along the beach, over which the surging foam breaks like a perpetual dirge, afford striking indication of the dangers to which mariners are subject in this wild region. Hans Christian Andersen, in one of his most delightful works, has thrown a romantic interest over the scenery of Jutland, giving a charm to its very desolation, and investing with all the beauty of a genial humanity the rude lives of the gipsies and fishermen who inhabit this wild region of drifting sands and wintry tempests. Steen Blicher has also cast over it the spell of his poetic genius; and Von Buch, in his graphic narrative, has given a memorable interest to its sea-girt shores, where “masts and skeletons of vessels stand like a range of palisades.”
During our passage through the Skager-Rack we passed innumerable fleets of fishing-smacks, and often encountered the diminutive skiffs of the fishermen, with two or three amphibious occupants, buffeting about among the waves many miles from the shore. The weather had been steadily growing worse ever since our departure from Copenhagen. As we entered the North Sea it began to blow fiercer than ever, and for two dayswe experienced all the discomforts of chopping seas that drenched our decks fore and aft, and chilling gales mingled with fogs and heavy rains. It was cold enough for midwinter, yet here we were on the verge of midsummer. Our little craft was rendered somewhat unmanageable by a deck-load of coal and a heavy cargo of freight, and there were periods when I would have thought myself fortunate in being once more off Cape Horn in the good shipPacific. The amtman and his young bride spent this portion of their honey-moon performing a kind of duet that reminded me of my friend Ross Wallace’s lines in “Perdita:”
“Like two sweet tunes that wandering met,And so harmoniously they run,The hearer deems they are but one.”
“Like two sweet tunes that wandering met,And so harmoniously they run,The hearer deems they are but one.”
At least the harmony was perfect, whatever might be thought of the music in other respects. Young Jonasen swallowed a few more sardines about this period of the voyage, which he vainly attempted to secure by sudden and violent contractions of the diaphragm. In short, there were but two persons in the cabin besides Captain Andersen and myself who had the temerity to appear at table—one an old Danish merchant, who generally received advices, midway through the meal, requiring his immediate presence on deck; and the other a gentleman from Holstein, who always lost his appetite after the soup, and had to jump up and run to his state-room for exercise.
In due time we sighted the shores of Scotland. A pilot came on board inside the Frith of Forth, and, as we steamed rapidly on our course, all the passengers forgot their afflictions, and gazed with delight on the sloping sward and woodland, the picturesque villages, and romantic old castles that decorate the shores of this magnificent sheet of water.
Our destination was Grangemouth, where we arrived early on Sunday morning. A few sailors belonging to some vessels in the docks, a custom-house inspector, andthree small boys, comprised the entire visible population of the place. Judging by the manner in which the Sabbath is kept in Scotland, the Scotch must be a profoundly moral people. The towns are like grave-yards, and the inhabitants bear a striking resemblance to sextons, or men who spend much of their lives in burying the dead.
I was very anxious to get a newspaper containing the latest intelligence from America, but was informed that none could be had on Sunday. I wanted to go up to Edinburg: it was not possible on Sunday. I asked a man where could I get some cigars? he didna ken; it was Sunday. The depressed expression of the few people I met began to prey like a nightmare on my spirits. Doubtless it is a very good thing to pay a decent regard to the Sabbath, but can any body tell me where we are commanded to look gloomy? The contrast was certainly very striking between the Scotch and the Danes. Of course there is no such thing as drunkenness in Scotland, no assaults and batteries, no robberies and murders, no divorces, no cheating among the merchants of Glasgow or the bankers of Edinburg, no sympathizing with rebellion and the institution of slavery—for the Scotch are a sober and righteous people, much given to sackcloth and ashes, manufactures of iron, and societies for the insurance of property against fire.
TheArcturuswas detained several days discharging and taking in freight. I availed myself of the first train to visit Edinburg. A day there, and an excursion to Glasgow and Loch Lomond, agreeably occupied the time. I must confess the scenery—beautiful as it is, and fraught with all the interest that history and genius can throw over it—disappointed me. It was not what I expected. It was a damp, moist, uncomfortable reality, as Mantalini would say—not very grand or striking in any respect. A subsequent excursion to the Trosachs, Loch Katrine, Loch Long, and the Clyde, afforded me a better opportunity of judging, yet it all seemed tame and commonplacecompared with the scenery of California and Norway. If I enjoyed a fair specimen of the climate—rain, wind, and fog, varied by sickly gleams of sunshine—it strikes me it would be a congenial country for snails and frogs to reside in. The Highlands are like all other wild places within the limits of Europe, very gentle in their wildness compared with the rugged slopes of the Sierra Nevada. The Lady of the Lake must have possessed an uncommonly strong constitution, if she made her nocturnal excursions on Loch Katrine in a thin white robe without suffering any bad consequences, for I found a stout overcoat insufficient to keep the chilling mists of that region from seeking in my bones a suitable location for rheumatism.
I was quietly sitting in my state-room, awaiting the departure of the steamer, when a tremendous racket on the cabin steps, followed by a rush of feet up and down the saloon, startled me out of a pleasant home-dream.
“Hello! What the devil! I say! Where’s every body! Stoord! Blast the fellow! Here, Bowser! What’r ye abeaout! Ho there! Where the dooce are our berths? By Jove! Ha! ha! This is jolly!”
Other voices joined in, with a general chorus of complaints and exclamations—“Egad! it’s ado! No berths, no state-rooms! Ho, Stoord! Where’s my trunk? I say, Stoord, where’s my fishing-rod? Hey! hey! did you ’appen to see my overalls? I’ve lost my gun! ’Pon my word, this is a pretty do! Let’s go see the Agent?” “Come on! Certainly!” “Oh, hang it, no!” “Oh yes!” “Here, Bowser! What the devil! Where’s Bowser? Gone ashore, by Jove! A pretty kettle of fish!” Here there was a sudden and general stampede, and amid loud exclamations of “Beastly!” and“Disgusting!” the party left the cabin. I barely had time to see that it consisted of some four or five fashionable tourists—spirited young bloods of sporting proclivities, who had taken passage for Iceland. The prospect of having some company was pleasant enough, and from the specimen I had seen there could be no doubt it would be lively and entertaining.
Once more during the night I was aroused by a repetition of the noises and exclamations already described. The steamer was moving off. The passengers were all on board. We were battering our way through the canal. Soon the heaving waters of the ocean began to subdue the enthusiasm of the sportsmen, and before morning my ears were saluted by sounds and observations of a very different character.
I shall only add at present, in reference to this lively party of young “Britishers,” that I found them very good fellows in their way—a little boisterous and inexperienced, but well-educated and intelligent. The young chap with the dog was what we would call in America a “regular bird.” He and his dog afforded us infinite diversion during the whole passage—racing up and down the decks, into and out of the cabin, and all over each other. There was something so fresh and sprightly about the fellow, something so good-natured, that I could readily excuse his roughness of manner. One of the others, a quiet, scholastic-looking person, who did not really belong to the party, having only met them on board, was a young collegian well versed in Icelandic literature. He was going to Iceland to perfect himself in the language of the country, and make some translations of the learned Sagas.
A favorable wind enabled us to sight the Orkneys on the afternoon following our departure from the Frith of Forth. Next day we passed the Shetlands, of which we had a good view. The rocky shores of these islands, all rugged and surf-beaten, with myriads of wild-fowl darkening the air around them, presented a most temptingfield of exploration. I longed to take a ramble in the footsteps of Dr. Johnson; but to see the Shetlands would be to lose Iceland, and of the two I preferred seeing the latter. After a pleasant passage of two days and a half from Grangemouth we made the Faroe Islands, and had the good fortune to secure, without the usual loss of time occasioned by fogs, an anchorage in the harbor of Thorshavn.
A fashionable young man leans on the rail of the steamer
A DANDY TOURIST.
The harbor and town, surrounded by hills
THORSHAVN.
The Faroe Islands lie about midway between Scotland and Iceland, and belong to Denmark. The whole group consists of thirty-five small islands, some of which are little more than naked rocks jutting up out of the sea. About twenty are inhabited. The rest are too barren and precipitous to afford a suitable place of abode even for the hardy Faroese. The entire population is estimated at something over six thousand, of which the greater part are shepherds, fishermen, and bird-catchers. Owing to the situation of these islands, surrounded by the open sea and within the influence of the Gulf Stream, the climate is very mild, although they lie in the sixty-second degree of north latitude. The winters are never severe, and frost and snow rarely last over two months. They are subject, however, at that season to frequent and terrible gales from the north, and during the summer are often inaccessible for days and even weeks, owing to dense fogs. The humidity of the climate is favorable to the growth of grass, which covers the hills with a brilliant coating of green wherever there is the least approach to soil; and where there is no soil, as in many places along the shores, the rocks are beautifully draped with moss and lichens. The highest point in the group is 2800 feet above the level of the sea, and the general aspect of them all is wild and rugged in the extreme. Prodigious cliffs, a thousand feet high, stand like a wall out of the sea on the southern side of the Stromoe. The Mygenaes-holm, a solitary rock, guards, like a sentinel, one of the passages, and forms a terrific precipice of 1500 feet on one side, against which the waves break with an everlasting roar. Here the solan-goose, the eider-duck,and innumerable varieties of gulls and other sea-fowl, build their nests and breed.