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, once the 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 the Thing. 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 a bouquet 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.
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 by the 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 5P.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.
