A FINE morning in August found our little schooner dancing over the waves of the Greenland strait. Towering up on our right, was the lofty SnÆfell Jokull, one of the highest mountains in Iceland. It has the regular conical shape of most volcanoes. It is six thousand feet high, being one-third higher than Vesuvius. At this season about two-thirds of its height is black, and the rest is covered with perpetual snow. When more than fifty miles to the south, I took a drawing of it. It is near the end of a long peninsula, south of Breithifiorth, and very nearly the westernmost point of Iceland. The sharp outline of the mountain is distinctly visible in the clear atmosphere here for more than a hundred miles. This volcano has not had an eruption for several centuries. Two or three parties of modern travelers have been to the summit. They have described the ascent, after reaching the snow-line, as extremely dangerous. Wide and deep cracks in the everlasting ice, and treacherous bridges of snow, made the danger so great that they tied themselves in a string, to a long rope, and walked about six feet apart. Then, if one man fell through into a chasm, the rest pulled him out. No lives were lost, however, in these excursions; the toil sweetened the pleasure, the danger spiced it, and they were much gratified with their lofty journey. To the east of SnÆfell Jokull, we sailed by Stapi, a small town near some famous basaltic cliffs, on the coast. Immense perpendicular columns, and many thrown down, give the coast much the appearance of the vicinity of the Giant’s Causeway, and the island of Staffa. The coast here is more varied, and the scenery more magnificent, than the north of Ireland; but there is no cave yet discovered that will vie with the famed one of Fingal’s. Some of the pillars here at Stapi are near eight feet in diameter, and all of them of the regular geometrical shape so often seen in basaltic rocks. They are like the cells in honeycombs, but solid, and generally hexagonal, but sometimes heptagons and pentagons. Though the time when these basalts were in a state of fusion is very remote, yet there is no doubt of their volcanic character. If geologists and mineralogists wish to see volcanic matter in every variety of form, let them come to Iceland.

We passed by the Meal Sack and the Grenadier Islands, the first day, and rounded the long nose of Cape Reykjanes, and the second found us driving before a southwest wind; due east, along the south coast of Iceland. We sailed near the Westmann Islands, and plainly in sight of the lofty summits of Hekla, Torfa, Eyjafjalla, and Tindfjalla Jokulls. The most singular curiosity on the south coast of Iceland, that can be seen from the sea, is a group of rocks that I should call The Needles, from their great resemblance to the “Needles” of the Isle of Wight. They are near a little fishing village called Dyarholar, or “Portland.” The rocks are shaped a little more like bodkins than needles, and some of them rear their pointed heads near a hundred feet high. They all stand in the ocean, some of them over a mile from land. As we sailed east, the craggy summit of the OrÆfa Jokull showed his lofty and chilly head. The sides, too, were visible as well as the summit, and perpendicular rocks and dark-looking caverns showed the foot-prints of mighty convulsions of nature. The OrÆfa Jokull, forming part of that immense mountain known as Skaptar Jokull, is, as I have mentioned before, the highest in Iceland. By trigonometrical measurement, it is 6,760 feet high. SnÆfell Jokull is 6,000 feet; Eyjafjalla Jokull, 5,900; and Hekla, 5,700. The ThiorsÁ river, a stream larger than the Hudson or the Rhine, rises high up on the side of Skaptar Jokull, 3,000 feet above the level of the sea, and in a deep caÑon in the lava, pours its resistless torrent down into the ocean. Its rapid and turbulent current may be imagined. These mountains in the interior of the country, the volcanic islands out at sea, the rapid and powerful rivers, the Geysers, and innumerable hot springs, along with the magnificent coast scenery, form the most prominent physical features of Iceland.

For two days we were skirting the island on the south coast. This, and the eastern part of Iceland, has few harbors. The coast is, much of it, low and sandy, and difficult of approach. Some years since, a French vessel was wrecked here in the winter season, and the crew cast ashore, perfectly destitute. A few poor Icelanders that lived in the vicinity, carried them to their huts, fed and took care of them, and gave them shelter till spring. The next summer, on the annual return of the French war-vessel that visits Iceland, the sailors were taken home; and king Louis Philippe ordered a handsome compensation and reward in money, to the Icelanders who had so hospitably protected his shipwrecked sailors. They, however, did not wish it; said they had only done their duty, and neither wanted nor deserved compensation; and steadily refused to accept a single penny. Determined to do something in return for their kindness, Louis Philippe ordered his representative in Iceland to state that he would educate at the University of France, four young Icelanders; and the Governor, the Bishop, and the President of the College, made choice of the young men who were to be recipients of the favor. At the end of their term—four years—as many more were selected; and thus the French government undertook the constant care and expense of the education of four Iceland boys, who were appointed for their ability, diligence, and good conduct, to receive the bounty of the French government; and all for an act of humanity towards a crew of shipwrecked sailors. The whole transaction reflects the highest honor on all concerned. One of the young gentlemen who was a recipient of this privilege, was a son of my friend Mr. Sivertsen. After the French war-vessel, the unfortunate LILLOISE, was lost, or failed to return from the Arctic sea, in connection with one of the expeditions that went in search of her, there was a scientific corps—a “Scandinavian Commission”—organized, of learned men from France, Denmark, and Iceland, to gather information, make drawings of landscapes, and collect specimens of mineralogy, botany, and the various branches of natural history. The commission was headed by M. Paul Geimar, and our young Icelander was one of the party. The results of the expedition, in a scientific point of view, were of the highest value. A work was published, containing several folio volumes of plates, many of them colored, and the Journal of the Expedition, in six octavos; and altogether it forms the most valuable work of the kind extant. It comprises Iceland, Greenland, Lapland, and Spitzbergen; and nothing, either of a geographical, scientific, or historical nature has been omitted. Along with portraits of Geimar and others of the Commission, is a “counterfeit presentment” of young Sivertsen; and his is one of the finest faces ever delineated. It has the lively, intelligent countenance, lofty brow, and beaming eye of the Anglo-Saxons, and equal to the finest specimens of the Caucasian race in any part of the world. This promising young man died in France, a few years after his return from the North, universally esteemed by all, and by none more than by Louis Philippe himself.

But the winds are drifting us lazily to the eastward. We sailed north of Faroe, and saw the cliffs of the lofty Stromoe towering upwards like the ruins of some gigantic temple. The return voyage was all beautiful September weather. Our passengers—except the bachelor of the present writing—consisted of twelve young Iceland ladies, and a small lad; and we had a regular “jolly” time. Several of the young ladies were singers, and two of them had guitars. Nearly every afternoon we had a dance. The young ladies made fast progress in English—and Yankee—manners, customs, language, and dancing. I also got well posted up in Icelandic, particularly in the sentimental,—or, as Sam Weller would say, in the more “tenderer vords.” Guitar music, Iceland hymns, the violin, and “threading the dance” on a rocking deck, were all matters of every-day occurrence. Did I say every day? Not with me. But the master of the SÖlÖven, Captain Heinrich Stilhoff, was certainly the most reckless, irreligious man for a sea-captain, that ever I saw in my life. Had a sober traveler come alongside of us on Sunday, he would have been bothered to have found out what kind of worship we had aboard. His reflections would probably have been like old Lambro’s, when he returned, from his piratical cruise, to his island and his daughter. Suppose such a one in his yacht had come up with us:

It does not speak well for the Danish people and nation, that their mail-ship, the only government vessel running between Denmark and Iceland, is commanded by a man of the character of Captain Stilhoff; and I cannot think it will long continue so. Commanding a vessel carrying the Government dispatches, and having the most popular and direct passenger traffic between the two countries, a profligate who openly boasts of debauching his female passengers, defenseless women, the sisters and daughters of the citizens of both countries; a state of things that certainly does not reflect any honor on the proprietors of the vessel, or show much sagacity in their choice of a commander.

On, on, goes our little bark; the northern shore

Old Norway’s coast appears, and we are several days in sight of the brown and snowy mountains, and little villages of wooden houses. The thirteenth day, we passed Cape Lindesness, and Christiansand. We were then within two hundred and fifty miles of Copenhagen—only a few hours’ voyage for a steamship; but we had no steam a-board, except what might be found in certain kettles and casks, and these did not aid our progress much. I thought two days, at farthest would suffice for the rest of our voyage; but Boreas was not in the ascendant, nor any of his brethren either, much, for we had very little wind from any quarter. The current in the Skager Rack took us outwardly about two miles an hour, and the wind was southeasterly, and we were bound in. One tack would throw us near the coast of Norway, and the next brought us along the low, flat sands of Jutland. We progressed from twenty-five to fifty miles a day. Several huge steamers boomed past us, with their black sides, and volumes of smoke, and swift progress. Some of them were bound into the Baltic, and some out, and some to Norwegian ports. At last we rounded the Skagen Horn, and entered the Cattegat. Finally, the towers of Elsinore Castle appeared; and, a breeze springing up from the north, we dropped anchor before Copenhagen, the twentieth day after leaving Iceland; and, in a most terrible rain—so anxious were we to tread the land again—all the passengers were set on the quay, and found lodgings amid the turmoil of a great city.