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,

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 viv 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:

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.