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Transcriber’s note:
Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_).
Small capitals have been converted to all capital letters.
NORÐURFARI,
OR RAMBLES IN ICELAND.
by
PLINY MILES.
Nefndan Norðurfara
Nu á hann að svara
Fyrir fyrða tvo;
Virðið vel það gaman!
Við því sattir framan
Erum allir saman—
Eða mun ei svo?
Jú—allir Isalandi
Unum við og sandi
Er bláar bárur þvo.
BRINJULFSSON.
New York:
Charles B. Norton, 71 Chambers Street,
1854.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1854, by
Charles B. Norton,
In the Clerk’s office of the District Court for the Southern District of
New York.
Baker, Godwin & Co., Printers,
1 Spruce St., New York.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
TO
PHILIP JAMES BAILEY,
AUTHOR OF “FESTUS,”
IN ADMIRATION OF HIS GENIUS,
RESPECT FOR HIS CHARACTER,
REMEMBRANCE OF HIS FRIENDSHIP
AND THE MANY
VALUABLE HOURS SPENT IN HIS SOCIETY,
THIS UNPRETENDING VOLUME
Is Affectionately
INSCRIBED.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CONTENTS.
PREFACE, XIII
CHAPTER I.
The Voyage—Stop a day at Elsinore—Elsinore Castle, Hamlet,
and Shakspeare—“Independence Day” at Sea—Fourth of July
Oration—Whales and Sharks—Passengers, Live Stock, Books,
and Amusements—The Meal Sack—Sea-Birds—The Gannet, or
Solan Goose—Land at Reykjavik, Page 17-32
CHAPTER II.
Iceland, its Discovery and Settlement—Discovery and Settlement of
Greenland and North America by the Icelanders—Ericsson—Trading
and Skirmishing between the Icelanders and the North American
Indians—Voyage of Columbus to Iceland—Icelandic Congress, or
Althing—Thingvalla, the Capital—Administration of the Laws, 33-47
CHAPTER III.
Geographical Features of Iceland—Productions and Minerals—Character
and Literary Taste of the People—Wild and Domestic Animals—Exports
and Imports—Chief Towns—Habits of the Icelanders of Olden
Time—Beards, 48-60
CHAPTER IV.
Town of Reykjavik—Houses, Gardens, and Productions—A Ride in the
Country—Visit Hafnarfiorth—Preparations for a Journey in the
Interior—A Party of Travelers—Face of the Country—Salmon-Fishing—A
Tumble—Breakfast on the Hill-side—Stop at a Hotel!—Splendid
Scenery—Extraordinary Purity of the Atmosphere—Almannagjá, or
Chasm in the Rock—Arrive at Thingvalla—Trout-Fishing on a large
scale—Encamp for the Night, 61-75
CHAPTER V.
Dining Out—Many Tongues, but no Confusion—A Merry
Dinner-Party—Angling—Thingvalla, and place of Meeting of
the Ancient Althing—Daring Act of a Criminal—“If you Hang a
Rogue, you must Catch him First”—Old Customs—Introduction
of Christianity, and Fall of Idolatry—A Lacteal
Disquisition—Company Separate, 76-84
CHAPTER VI.
Etymology of Icelandic Words—Similarity of the Icelandic and
English—The Iceland Numerals—Counting—Geographical Terms, 85-88
CHAPTER VII.
Journeying to the Eastward—A Forest—Blacksmithing—Game-Birds—The
Ptarmigan—Iceland Ladies Riding Horseback—Thingvalla Lake—Rough
Traveling—First View of Mount Hekla—Broad Valleys and Large
Rivers—A Cave, and Such a Cave!—Singular Cataract—Frail
Bridge—Arrive at the Geysers, 89-99
CHAPTER VIII.
The Great Geyser—Its Size and Appearance—Numerous Hot
Springs in the Vicinity—Springs of Boiling Mud—Beautiful
Colored Clays—A Seething Cauldron—The Little Geyser—Wait
for an Eruption of the Great Geyser—Singular Warnings, or
Signal Guns—An Eruption—The Strokr, another Geyser—Forced
Eruption of the Strokr—Surtshellir, or the Devil’s Cave—A
Warm Bath—How to Cook a Dinner without Fire—Beautiful
Birds—Termination of the “Show,” 100-113
CHAPTER IX.
Journey towards Mount Hekla—Iceland Rivers—Haying—An Iceland
Meadow—How the Horses Live—Beautiful Birds—The Pochard—Playing
Mazeppa—Swimming a River Horseback—A Hospitable Icelander—Herre
Johann Briem—Slanders and Falsehoods of Madame Pfeiffer, 114-123
CHAPTER X.
Productions of Iceland—White Clover—A Singular Ferry—Horses
Swimming—Sleeping Under the Bed—Sleeping in a Church—An
Iceland Salute—Iceland Horses—An Icelander with a Brick in
his Hat—Boyish Sports—Rolling Stones down Hill—Guess I
rolled a Big One down—Guess it knocked the Stone Wall
over—“Guess” a certain Yankee had to pay for it, too, 124-131
CHAPTER XI.
Ascent of Mount Hekla—Preparations and “Victualing” for the
Trip—Mountain Gorges—Hard Climbing for Ponies—Obliged to
Dismount, and leave our Horses—Streams of Lava—Smoke and
Fire—Variegated Appearance and Color of the Lava—Almost an
Accident—Up, up the Mountain—Hard Climbing—A Lonely Flower
on Mount Hekla—Beautiful Weather—Snow—Craters of the Late
Eruption—Fire and Brimstone—Awful Scene, and Dangerous
Traveling—Arrive on the Summit—An Elevated Dinner—Boundless
View from the Top—Descent into the Large Crater—Ancient
Snow-Banks—Descent of the Mountain, 132-146
CHAPTER XII.
Volcanoes in Iceland—A Submarine Eruption—Awful Eruption of
Skaptar Jokull in 1783—Terrible Destruction of Life and
Property—Details of the Eruption—A River of Fire—“Fiske
Vatn”—A Mountain Giant Drinking up a Lake—Eruptions of
Mount Hekla since the year 1000, 147-155
CHAPTER XIII.
Pleasing Customs—“Son of man, set thy face against the
daughters of thy people”—Roses in Iceland—Fields of
Beautiful Heath—Skarth—Crossing the Ferry—A Lofty Cataract—The
Westmann Islands—People on Volcanic Rocks, 3,000 feet
above the Sea—One Half of the World never knows how the
other Half lives—Climbing Crags for Sea-Fowl—Islands
Plundered by Pirates, 156-168
CHAPTER XIV.
Game-Birds of Iceland—Wild Reindeer—Ravens—Skalholt—A Merry
Sysselman—Good Cheer in Prospect, “for he’s a jolly good
fellow!”—Finally concluded not to stay all night with
him—Took “a Horn,” and left, 169-176
CHAPTER XV.
Stay at Hraungerthi—Rev. Mr. Thorarensen and Family—Christianity,
Comfort, and Refinement—Church-yard and Homes of the
Dead—Gardening and Farming in Iceland—Iceland Hospitality, 177-184
CHAPTER XVI.
Leave Hraungerthi—A Pretty Girl, and a Man not so Pretty—Crossing
a Ferry—The Reykir Springs—Singular Group of Boiling Fountains
and Geysers—Nero, 185-192
CHAPTER XVII.
An Icelander in a Warm Bath—A Churl—Not born to be
drowned—Vogsósar—Rev. Mr. Jonson—Hospitality
again—Drift-wood—Plum-pudding Stone—Arrive at Krisuvik, 193-199
CHAPTER XVIII.
Krisuvik—The Sulphur Mountains—Fire and Brimstone—Sulphur
Mines—Jet of Steam from a Hole in a Rock—A Mud Geyser—“Stones
of Sulphur,” 200-207
CHAPTER XIX.
Leave the Sulphur Mountains—Fun with Mr. Philmore—Stealing another
Man’s Thunder—Up and down Hills—A Horrible Road—Arrive at
Hafnarfiorth—Visit at Mr. Johnson’s—House full of Pretty
Girls—A Lady in a “fix”—A Bachelor in the same—Girls Riding
Horseback—The Town and Harbor of Hafnarfiorth—Journey to
Reykjavik, and Cordial Reception, 208-217
CHAPTER XX.
Ornithology of Iceland—Eider-Ducks Half Domesticated, yet
Wild—A Bird that won’t be Caught—Cormorants—The Gannet, or
Solan Goose, 218-225
CHAPTER XXI.
Snow-Birds—Gulls—The Iceland Gull—Skua Gull—The Great White
Owl—The Jer-Falcon, or Iceland Falcon—His Unequaled
Velocity on the Wing—Falcon of Henry IV. carrying the Mail
from Paris to Malta—Trained Falcons, 226-232
CHAPTER XXII.
The Faroe Isles—Little known to Modern Travelers—Majestic
Scenery—Thorshaven—The “Witch’s Finger”—Men Climbing
Crags—A Terrible Chasm; a Home for Sea-Fowl—Anecdote of
Graba—Norwegian Collectors, and Faroese Maidens, 233-241
CHAPTER XXIII.
Northern Mythology—The Chaotic World, and Scandinavian idea
of Creation—Surtur and Surturbrand—Ymir—The Myth of the
Ash—Mimir’s Well—Odin, Thor, and Baldur—Forseti, the God
of Justice—Bragi, the God of Poetry—Frey—Freyja, Heimdal
and Hödur—The Goddesses, the Valkyrjor, and the Norns, 242-253
CHAPTER XXIV.
Mythology of the Northmen, Concluded—Day and Night—The Earth,
Sun, and Moon—Loki, the Wolf Fenrir, the Midgard Serpent,
and Tyr—Hela, or Death—Valhalla—Death of Baldur—Adventures
of Thor with the Giants of Jötunheim—Ragnarök, 254-267
CHAPTER XXV.
Early Literature of the Icelanders—Eddas and Sagas—Manners
and Customs of the Period—Extracts from the Poetic Edda, 268-280
CHAPTER XXVI.
Modern Icelandic Literature—Icelandic Poetry—Jon
Thorlakson’s Translations of Milton and Pope—Burns’
Bruce’s Address—Icelandic Hymn—Franklin’s Story of a
Whistle—Quotations from an Iceland Newspaper, 281-292
CHAPTER XXVII.
Matters Personal, Literary, and General—Manners and Customs of
the People—Iceland Politics—Books and Newspapers—Congressional
Reports—Sir Henry Holland—Danish Laws Prohibiting Trade with
Iceland—Productions—Prospects of Trade being Opened to the
World—Letter from President Johnson on the Subject—Trade
Opened to the World, 293-302
CHAPTER XXVIII.
Agricultural Resources of Iceland—Improvements needed—Diseases
and Medical Practice—Public Worship in Reykjavik—Ancient
Costume—Further Extracts from President Johnson’s Letters—Social
Evenings—Young Ladies of Iceland; their Education and
Accomplishments—Mr. Brinjulfsson—Take Leave of
Friends—Embarkation, 303-312
CHAPTER XXIX.
Voyage to Copenhagen—Snæfell Jokull from the Sea—Basaltic Cliffs
of Stapi—The “Needles”—Portland—Mountains on the South Coast
of Iceland—Hospitality of the Icelanders to French Sailors
Shipwrecked—Liberality of Louis Philippe—Loss of the
Lilloise—Scandinavian Commission—Geimar’s Great Work—Mr.
Sivertsen—Young Ladies on Ship-board—Music—Dancing on a
Rocking Deck—Captain of the Sölöven—Contrary Winds—Arrive
at Copenhagen, 313-320
------------------------------------------------------------------------
PREFACE.
A PREFACE to a book, is a sort of pedestal where the author gets up
to make a speech; frequently an apologizing ground, where he “drops
in—hopes he don’t intrude;” a little strip of green carpet near the
foot-lights, where he bows to the audience, and with a trembling voice
asks them to look with lenient eyes on his darling bantling that is
just coming before the world. Very likely he tells of the numerous
difficulties and disadvantages under which he has labored; perhaps
apologizes for his style, under the plea of writing against time, and
that he has been greatly hurried. Readers and critics are usually
indulgent towards the minor faults of an author, provided he entertains
or instructs them; but they pay little attention to special pleadings.
The writer who deliberately perpetrates a stupid or silly book,
deserves the fate of dunces—obloquy and contempt. If he adds to this
the double crime of setting up a justification, and asks that his work
be not subject to the usual canons of criticism, then the reviewers
should level their heaviest guns, pepper him pungently, and prove him
but a buzzard, while he claimed the honors of a game-cock. We however,
have a right to expect and demand more from a veteran author, than from
a young and inexperienced one.
The world is so perverse, so incorrigibly an unbeliever, that very
likely it would not credit a word of it—without finding the statements
proved—if the author of this little volume were to say, that it was a
readable and valuable work, “just what has been wanted,”—a good thing,
and in season. Yet, gentle reader, “and still gentler purchaser,”
seeing you have paid your dollar!—it is most undoubtedly true of the
“Rambles” of this “Northurfari,” your humble and obliged servant.
Dropping the εγω, he will tell you how it was. Spending a few years
in travel, he found himself after the “Great Exhibition” epoch, like
the unconquered and unconquerable Macedonian, seeking for a world
to pommel—with his footsteps—and after diligent and long-continued
search on all the maps of all the Wylds, Johnstones, and Coltons in
Christendom, could find but one land that was untrodden; but one that
was not as contemptibly common as Irkoutsk, Timbuctoo, or the Niger
itself. ICELAND was the shining bit of glacier, the one piece of virgin
ore, the solitary lump of unlicked lava; and straightway to Iceland
he went. It might not interest his readers any, were they to be told
whether these pages were written in the saddle, or on Mount Hekla; in
a tar-painted house in Reykjavik, or in a marble palace in London; on
the deck of a Danish schooner, in a continuous summer day of the Arctic
sea, or by the light of bright eyes in Scotia’s land. It so happens
that the most of them were penned in the ULTIMA THULE, the _Terra
Incognita_ which they attempt to describe; and very little has been
altered or amended since the original draft. The spirit of travel is
the freshest at the time the travel is enjoyed; and all impressions are
then the most vivid. What is written on the spot, carries with it a
_vraisemblance_; and, though an after revision may add some polish to
the style, yet to a certain extent, it takes away the life and vivacity
of the narrative. This “polishing” and “editing” process, may reduce
it to a dead flat, and, like an attempt to smooth a butterfly’s wing,
remove the bloom, and leave it but a bony shard. Slang may be bearable,
though it can hardly be creditable; puns may be so bad that some might
call them positively good; but dullness, and a style that is heavy to
stupidity, are the unpardonable sins of authorship. This work, however,
may have all, and more than all these faults.
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,
—————“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;
Up from the sands ye codlings peep,
And wag your tails about.”
It must be understood that I’m fond of quotations, particularly poetry;
and all must admit that this is a very appropriate one. Why couldn’t
good old Cotton Mather, or some of his compeers, have given us some more
of this sort? Perhaps he did, but if so, my memory has not recorded
them.
The noise of a whale spouting can be heard from one to two miles. He
throws the water from thirty to fifty feet high. The whale rises clear
to the surface of the water, gives one “blow” and instantly goes under.
He generally rises again in one or two minutes, but is sometimes under
five minutes. Once as I sat on the bowsprit watching two or three that
were playing about, one swam nearly under me, rose up, blew a blast with
his water-trumpet, giving me quite a sprinkling, and then sank. I had a
good opportunity to see him, and got a fair view of his breathing pipe.
It was a round hole in the top of his head, had a slight rim round it,
and I should think was about two inches and a half in diameter. This
animal, as near as I could judge, was between sixty and seventy feet in
length. The top of his head and shoulders was broad and flat, and near
or quite twelve feet across. His back, instead of appearing round, was
nearly level, and showed room enough for a quartette of Highlanders to
have danced a reel thereon. ’Twould have been a rather slippery floor
though, and I think a dancer would have needed nails in his shoes.
Loud sung out the captain one day, and looking over the side, close to
the ship, deep under the clear water, we saw a shark. O! it makes me
feel savage to see one of these monsters, I want to cut out his heart’s
blood. Many a good Christian do these villains swallow. The captain told
us that one Christmas day when he was in the Pacific, a shark came near,
and a large hook baited with a piece of pork was thrown into the water;
he instantly seized it, and they hauled the monster up the ship’s side,
and an officer on board drew his sword and cut him nearly in two, before
he was allowed on deck. Each passenger took some part of him as a trophy
of their Christmas-day fishing.
I had a few books on board, and did the best I could to make the time
pass agreeably. But with all our resources, literary, ornithological,
piscatorial, and miscellaneous, there were many dull hours. One calm day
I got out my writing materials, and thought I would write a letter, or a
chapter of these wanderings. After getting fairly engaged, a sudden
shower seemed to dash over me; and looking up, a sailor “high on the
giddy mast,” while painting the yard had upset his paint pot, and down
the white shower came on my hat, coat, paper and every thing around. We
must take things coolly on shipboard, as well as elsewhere, I suppose;
for there is no use in getting vexed, whatever may chance. As for the
letter, I sent that to its destination, with all its imperfections on
its head. I scraped the paint off my hat, and the mate and I set to work
to clean my coat. After scrubbing it an hour or two, we fastened a rope
to it, and throwing it overboard, let it drag in the sea a few hours.
The soapsuds and old Neptune together took nearly all the paint out, but
it never entirely recovered from the effects of the shower from the
mainmast. As for books, I left England with the very smallest amount of
luggage possible, restricting myself in the reading line, to my small
Bible, Sir George Mackenzie’s Travels in Iceland, and one or two more.
At Copenhagen, I purchased six or eight volumes of Leipsic reprints of
English works—what the publisher calls “Tauchnitz’s edition of standard
English authors;” some of them are English works, but by what rule of
nationality he reckons among his _English_ authors the works of COOPER
and IRVING, I do not know. Among the volumes I purchased, were some from
Shakspeare, Byron, Scott, Dickens, and Bulwer. I found my reading, as I
knew I should, quite too scanty. I would have given something for
_Diodorus Siculus_, and good old _Froissart_; two books that it would
take a pretty long sea-voyage to get through.
Among our passengers were two or three of the dignitaries of Iceland;
one Sysselman, and the landfoged or treasurer of the island, William
Finsen, Esq. On leaving London I took two or three late American papers
with me; and in one of them, the “Literary World,” there was by chance,
a notice of a late meeting of the Society of Northern Antiquaries at
Copenhagen. Among the names of distinguished persons present, there were
mentioned some Danes, some Englishmen, and “some Americans,” and among
the latter, William Finsen Esq. of Iceland! I showed this to Mr.
Treasurer Finsen, and he was greatly amused to learn that he was a
Yankee. We had among our passengers several ladies—one, a Miss Johnson,
a very pretty, intelligent, modest-appearing Iceland lassie, who had
finished her education at Copenhagen, and was returning to her native
land to establish a female school. The domestic animals on board, were
one large, curly-haired, black dog, who rejoiced in the name of
“Neeger,” and four rather youthful swine, who were confined, or rather
were pretended to be confined, in a box. The first day out they leaped
the barriers of their stye, and made a dinner on the slender contents of
several flower pots that the lady passengers were taking out to cheer
the windows of their parlors in their Iceland homes. The discovery of
the depredation was any thing but pleasant, and I believe had the
“prices of stock” been taken at that time, live pork would have been
quoted as falling, and if not clear down, would have been decided to be,
on that ship, a thorough bore. Though they went the “whole hog”—the
entire animal in the floral line—that day, they did not sleep or feast
on roses all the voyage. They did not like their quarters overmuch, and
would usually manage at least once a day, to get out and go on an
exploring expedition round the deck.
Our living on board was, I believe, as it usually is on Danish merchant
vessels. It consisted principally of a thin, watery compound called
“soup,” of black potatoes, black beef, and yet blacker bread. At the
evening meal we had for drink, hot water frightened into a faint color
by a gentle infusion of China’s favorite plant. This drink our captain
called “tea.” Believing that good order on shipboard is much promoted
by subordination and submission to the commanding officer, I never used
to tell him it wasn’t “tea.” If strength, however, is a sign of life,
I must say that this showed very little sign of vitality. It probably
contained at least half a teaspoonful of tea, to a gallon of water;
but Oh! that black bread! it was not so bad an article, though, after
all. We had one blacker thing on board, and that was our dog “Nigger.”
The good boys and girls in America, who eat “Indian bread,” “wheat
bread,” “short cake” and “johnny cake,” have all read of the peasants
of Europe living on “black bread,” and wonder what it is. It is made of
rye, ground, but not bolted much, if any; and the bread is very dark, a
good deal darker than corn bread. At first I did not like it very well,
and at Elsinore I purchased a couple of large wheaten loaves. This
bread is very dear: I paid half a dollar a loaf; these lasted me about
ten days, but before that time, the mould had struck clear through
them. Not so the black bread. That keeps much better than wheaten
bread. The mould walks into it gradually however, but thoroughly. At
first there appeared a green coat, on the side that stood next to
another loaf in baking. This coat of mould kept growing deeper and
deeper, getting first the eighth of an inch, then a quarter of an inch,
and before the end of the voyage, over half an inch deep of solid
green. Inside of this the loaf was moist and fresh; and certainly,
after getting used to it, it is very good bread. It was the “staff of
life” with us; and considerably like a _staff_ the loaves were, being
in size and appearance about like a couple of feet of scantling cut out
of the heart of an oak. So much for living on shipboard. If we did not
fare like princes, we had the consolation of knowing that the fares
we paid were very light. So bad fare and light fares went together;
and that made it all fair. On the fifteenth day out, we first saw the
coast of Iceland. It was an irregular, rocky promontory, ending in
Cape Reykianess, the southwestern extremity of the island. In two days
we saw and passed the “Meal sack,”—(Danish _Meel sakken_)—a singular
rock island about eight miles southwest of Cape Reykianess. While
passing I took a drawing of it, and certainly very much like a bag of
meal it looks. It is near 200 feet high, and about that in diameter,
apparently perpendicular all round; on the north a little more so!
All over its craggy sides, we could see thousands of sea-birds. As
sunset approached we saw great numbers of gannets flying towards it,
going to rest for the night. This bird, known as the solan goose, is
larger than a goose, and while flying, from its peculiar color has a
most singular appearance. They are white, except the outer half of the
wing, the feet, and the bill, which are jet black, and the head a sort
of brownish yellow. A word more about these birds, and some others,
hereafter. Southwest of the Meal sack a few miles, is another singular
island called “the Grenadier.” It is a most striking looking object,
standing up out of the ocean several hundred feet high, like some tall
giant or lofty pillar. What a constant screaming of sea fowl there is
at all times about these lonely islands! But where is the night in this
northern latitude, in the summer season? Ask the lovely twilight that
continues for the two or three hours that the sun is below the horizon.
At midnight I read a chapter in the Bible, in fine print, with perfect
ease. At a distance of several miles I could tell the dividing line
between the rocks and the vegetation on the mountains. And what a
splendid panorama of mountain scenery this singular country presents!
Unlike any thing that I have ever seen on the face of the globe.
Finally on the nineteenth day of our voyage, our little bark dropped
anchor in the harbor of Reykjavik, and our cannon announced to the
Icelanders the arrival of the “Post ship” with letters and friends from
Denmark. Then with expectation about to be gratified, I stepped ashore
on the rocky coast of Iceland.