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Title: The Land of Thor
Author: Browne, J. Ross (John Ross), 1821-1875
Language: English
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THE
LAND OF THOR.
BY
J. ROSS BROWNE,
AUTHOR OF
"YUSEF," "CRUSOE'S ISLAND," "AN AMERICAN FAMILY IN
GERMANY," ETC.
Illustrated by the Author.
NEW YORK:
HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS,
FRANKLIN SQUARE.
1867.
BY J. ROSS BROWNE.
AN AMERICAN FAMILY IN GERMANY. Illustrated by the
Author. 12mo, Cloth, $2 00.
THE LAND OF THOR. Illustrated by the Author. 12mo,
Cloth, $2 00.
CRUSOE'S ISLAND: A Ramble in the Footsteps of Alexander
Selkirk. With Sketches of Adventure in California and
Washoe. Illustrations. 12mo, Cloth. $1 75.
YUSEF; or, The Journey of the Frangi. A Crusade in the
East. With Illustrations. 12mo, Cloth, $1 75.
Published by HARPER & BROTHERS, New York.
Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year one thousand eight
hundred and sixty-seven, by HARPER & BROTHERS, in the Clerk's Office
of the District Court of the Southern District of New York.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER PAGE
I. IMPRESSIONS OF ST. PETERSBURG 9
II. A PLEASANT EXCURSION 25
III. VIEWS ON THE MOSCOW RAILWAY 39
IV. MOSCOW 52
V. TEA-DRINKING 60
VI. THE PETERSKOI GARDENS 65
VII. THE "LITTLE WATER" 73
VIII. THE MARKETS OF MOSCOW 77
IX. THE NOSE REGIMENT 88
X. THE EMPEROR'S BEAR-HUNT 92
XI. RUSSIAN HUMOR 97
XII. A MYSTERIOUS ADVENTURE 104
XIII. THE DENOUEMENT 125
XIV. THE KREMLIN 134
XV. RUSSIAN MANNERS AND CUSTOMS 155
XVI. DESPOTISM _versus_ SERFDOM 165
XVII. REFORM IN RUSSIA 170
XVIII. A BOND OF SYMPATHY 185
XIX. CIVILIZATION IN RUSSIA 193
XX. PASSAGE TO REVEL 209
XXI. REVEL AND HELSINGFORS 218
XXII. A BATHING SCENE 227
XXIII. ABO--FINLAND 236
XXIV. STOCKHOLM 248
XXV. WALKS ABOUT STOCKHOLM 262
XXVI. THE GOTHA CANAL 272
XXVII. VOYAGE TO CHRISTIANA 291
XXVIII. FROM CHRISTIANIA TO LILLEHAMMER 302
XXIX. HOW THEY TRAVEL IN NORWAY 310
XXX. A NORWEGIAN GIRL 317
XXXI. HOW THEY LIVE 335
XXXII. JOHN BULL ABROAD 354
XXXIII. WOMEN IN NORWAY AND GERMANY 361
XXXIV. DOWN THE DRIVSDAL 368
XXXV. A NORWEGIAN HORSE-JOCKEY 372
XXXVI. OUT OF MONEY 381
XXXVII. ICELANDIC TRAVEL 383
XXXVIII. HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN 387
XXXIX. VOYAGE TO SCOTLAND 398
XL. THE JOLLY BLOODS 404
XLI. THE FAROE ISLANDS 408
XLII. FIRST IMPRESSIONS OF ICELAND 426
XLIII. REYKJAVIK, THE CAPITAL OF ICELAND 431
XLIV. GEIR ZÖEGA 440
XLV. THE ENGLISH TOURISTS 445
XLVI. THE ROAD TO THINGVALLA 449
XLVII. THE ALMANNAJAU 465
XLVIII. THINGVALLA 476
XLIX. THE ROAD TO THE GEYSERS 490
L. THE GEYSERS 503
LI. THE ENGLISH SPORTS IN TROUBLE 527
LII. A FRIGHTFUL ADVENTURE 537
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
PAGE
Laborers and Shipwrights 10
Russian and Finn 11
Cooper's Shop and Residence 15
Merchant, Peddlers and Coachman 18
Istrovoschiks 21
Fish Peddler 29
Young Peasants 31
Dvornick and Postman 35
Glazier, Painter, Carpenters 37
Hay Gatherers 46
Prisoners for Siberia 58
Tea-sellers 61
Mujiks at Tea 63
Russian Theatre 68
The Peterskoi Gardens 72
Vodka 75
Old-clothes' Market 78
Cabinet-makers 84
Pigs, Pups, and Pans 87
Imperial Nosegay 90
Skinned and Stuffed Man 100
Frozen Animals in the Market 101
Mujik and Cats 103
Effects of "Little Water" 111
Russian Beggars 115
Gambling Saloon 122
A Passage of Politeness 157
Serfs 168
In Norseland 292
The Steamer entering the Fjord 295
Coast of Norway 297
The Islands 299
Approach to Christiania 303
Station-house, Logen Valley 313
Station-boy 321
"Good-by--Many Thanks!" 322
Norwegian Peasant Family 324
The Post-girl 330
Waiting for a Nibble 341
Snow-plow 344
A Drinking Bout 345
A Norwegian Farm 347
Norwegian Church 348
Parish Schoolmaster 349
Dovre Fjeld 353
Playing him out 356
English Sportsman 358
Bear Chase 359
Peasant Women at Work 360
Wheeling Girls 363
Justice of the Peace 365
Model Landlord 367
Drivsdal Valley 369
Passage on the Driv 371
The Prize 375
Traveling on Foot 382
The great Geyser 385
Hans Christian Andersen 394
A Dandy Tourist 406
Thorshavn 407
View in Faroe Islands 409
Faroese Children 412
Faroese Islanders 414
Kirk Göboe 421
Farm-house and Ruins 423
Faroese on Horseback 425
Natural Bridge 427
Coast of Iceland 429
The Meal-sack 430
Reykjavik, the Capital of Iceland 432
Governor's Residence, Reykjavik 434
Icelandic Houses 435
Church at Reykjavik 436
Icelanders at Work 438
Geir Zöega 441
Icelandic Horses 443
English Party at Reykjavik 447
A Rough Road 451
Taking Snuff 454
An Icelandic Bog 459
Geir Zöega and Brusa 463
Entrance to the Almannajau 466
The Almannajau 467
Skeleton View of the Almannajau 469
Outline View of Thingvalla 470
Fall of the Almannajau 472
Icelandic Shepherd-girl 473
Church at Thingvalla 477
The Pastor's House 479
The Pastor of Thingvalla 485
Skeleton View of the Lögberg 488
Thingvalla, Lögberg, Almannajau 489
Diagram of the Lögberg 490
An Artist at Home 492
Lava-fjelds 494
Effigy in Lava 495
The Hrafnajau 497
The Tintron Rock 499
Bridge River 502
Shepherd and Family 506
The Strokhr 516
Side-saddle 519
Great Geyser and Receiver 525
Strokhr and Receiver 525
"Oh-o-o-ah!" 529
The English Party 533
Interior of Icelandic Hut 536
An Awkward Predicament 540
THE LAND OF THOR.
CHAPTER I.
IMPRESSIONS OF ST. PETERSBURG.
I landed at St. Petersburg with a knapsack on my back and a hundred
dollars in my pocket. An extensive tour along the borders of the
Arctic Circle was before me, and it was necessary I should husband my
resources.
In my search for a cheap German gasthaus I walked nearly all over the
city. My impressions were probably tinctured by the circumstances of
my position, but it seemed to me I had never seen so strange a place.
[Illustration: LABORERS AND SHIPWRIGHTS.]
[Illustration: RUSSIAN AND FINN.]
The best streets of St. Petersburg resemble on an inferior scale the
best parts of Paris, Berlin, and Vienna. Nothing in the architecture
conveys any idea of national taste except the glittering cupolas of
the churches, the showy colors of the houses, and the vast extent and
ornamentation of the palaces. The general aspect of the city is that
of immense level space. Built upon islands, cut up into various
sections by the branches of the Neva, intersected by canals, destitute
of eminent points of observation, the whole city has a scattered and
incongruous effect--an incomprehensible remoteness about it, as if one
might continually wander about without finding the centre. Some parts,
of course, are better than others; some streets are indicative of
wealth and luxury; but without a guide it is extremely difficult to
determine whether there are not still finer buildings and quarters in
the main part of the city--if you could only get at it. The eye
wanders continually in search of heights and prominent objects. Even
the Winter Palace, the Admiralty, and the Izaak Church lose much of
their grandeur in the surrounding deserts of space from the absence of
contrast with familiar and tangible objects. It is only by a careful
examination in detail that one can become fully sensible of their
extraordinary magnificence. Vast streets of almost interminable
length, lined by insignificant two-story houses with green roofs and
yellow walls; vast open squares or ploschads; palaces, public
buildings, and churches, dwindled down to mere toy-work in the deserts
of space intervening; countless throngs of citizens and carriages
scarcely bigger than ants to the eye; broad sheets of water, dotted
with steamers, brigs, barks, wood-barges and row-boats, still
infinitesimal in the distance; long rows of trees, forming a foliage
to some of the principal promenades, with glimpses of gardens and
shrubbery at remote intervals; canals and dismal green swamps--not all
at one sweep of the eye, but visible from time to time in the course
of an afternoon's ramble, are the most prominent characteristics of
this wonderful city. A vague sense of loneliness impresses the
traveler from a distant land--as if in his pilgrimage through foreign
climes he had at length wandered into the midst of a strange and
peculiar civilization--a boundless desert of wild-looking streets, a
waste of colossal palaces, of gilded churches and glistening waters,
all perpetually dwindling away before him in the infinity of space. He
sees a people strange and unfamiliar in costume and expression;
fierce, stern-looking officers, rigid in features, closely shaved, and
dressed in glittering uniforms; grave, long-bearded priests, with
square-topped black turbans, their flowing black drapery trailing in
the dust; pale women richly and elegantly dressed, gliding unattended
through mazes of the crowd; rough, half-savage serfs, in dirty pink
shirts, loose trowsers, and big boots, bowing down before the shrines
on the bridges and public places; the drosky drivers, with their long
beards, small bell-shaped hats, long blue coats and fire-bucket boots,
lying half asleep upon their rusty little vehicles awaiting a
customer, or dashing away at a headlong pace over the rough
cobble-paved streets, and so on of every class and kind. The traveler
wanders about from place to place, gazing into the strange faces he
meets, till the sense of loneliness becomes oppressive. An invisible
but impassable barrier seems to stand between him and the moving
multitude. He hears languages that fall without a meaning upon his
ear; wonders at the soft inflections of the voices; vainly seeks some
familiar look or word; thinks it strange that he alone should be cut
off from all communion with the souls of men around him; and then
wonders if they have souls like other people, and why there is no
kindred expression in their faces--no visible consciousness of a
common humanity. It is natural that every stranger in a strange city
should experience this feeling to some extent, but I know of no place
where it seems so strikingly the case as in St. Petersburg. Accustomed
as I was to strange cities and strange languages, I never felt utterly
lonely until I reached this great mart of commerce and civilization.
The costly luxury of the palaces; the wild Tartaric glitter of the
churches; the tropical luxuriance of the gardens; the brilliant
equipages of the nobility; the display of military power; the strange
and restless throngs forever moving through the haunts of business and
pleasure; the uncouth costumes of the lower classes, and the wonderful
commingling of sumptuous elegance and barbarous filth, visible in
almost every thing, produced a singular feeling of mingled wonder and
isolation--as if the solitary traveler were the only person in the
world who was not permitted to comprehend the spirit and import of the
scene, or take a part in the great drama of life in which all others
seemed to be engaged. I do not know if plain, practical men are
generally so easily impressed by external objects, but I must confess
that when I trudged along the streets with my knapsack on my back,
looking around in every direction for a gasthaus; when I spoke to
people in my peculiar style of French and German, and received
unintelligible answers in Russian; when I got lost among palaces and
grand military establishments, instead of finding the gasthaus, and
finally attracted the attention of the surly-looking guards, who were
stationed about every where, by the anxious pertinacity with which I
examined every building, a vague notion began to get possession of me
that I was a sort of outlaw, and would sooner or later be seized and
dragged before the Czar for daring to enter such a magnificent city in
such an uncouth and unbecoming manner. When I cast my eyes up at the
sign-boards, and read about grand fabrications and steam-companies,
and walked along the quays of the Neva, and saw wood enough piled up
in big broad-bottomed boats to satisfy the wants of myself and family
for ten thousand years; when I strolled into the Nevskoi, and jostled
my way through crowds of nobles, officers, soldiers, dandies, and
commoners, stopping suddenly at every picture-shop, gazing dreamily
into the gorgeous millinery establishments, pondering thoughtfully
over the glittering wares of the jewelers, lagging moodily by the
grand cafés, and snuffing reflectively the odors that came from the
grand restaurations--when all this occurred, and I went down into a
beer-cellar and made acquaintance with a worthy German, and he asked
me if I had any meerschaums to sell, the notion that I had no
particular business in so costly and luxurious a place began to grow
stronger than ever. A kind of dread came over me that the mighty
spirit of Peter the Great would come riding through the scorching hot
air on a gale of snowflakes, at the head of a bloody phalanx of
Muscovites, and, rising in his stirrups as he approached, would demand
of me in a voice of thunder, "Stranger, how much money have you got?"
to which I could only answer, "Sublime and potent Czar, taking the
average value of my Roaring Grizzly, Dead Broke, Gone Case, and
Sorrowful Countenance, and placing it against the present value of
Russian securities, I consider it within the bounds of reason to say
that I hold about a million of rubles!" But if he should insist upon
an exhibit of ready cash--there was the rub! It absolutely made me
feel weak in the knees to think of it. Indeed, a horrid suspicion
seized me, after I had crossed the bridge and begun to renew my search
for a cheap gasthaus on the Vassoli Ostrou, that every fat,
neatly-shaved man I met, with small gray eyes, a polished hat on his
head drawn a little over his brow, his lips compressed, and his coat
buttoned closely around his body, was a rich banker, and that he was
saying to himself as I passed, "That fellow with the slouched hat and
the knapsack is a suspicious character, to say the least of him. It
becomes my duty to warn the police of his movements. I suspect him
to be a Hungarian refugee."
[Illustration: COOPER'S SHOP AND RESIDENCE.]
With some difficulty, I succeeded at length in finding just such a
place as I desired--clean and comfortable enough, considering the
circumstances, and not unusually fertile in vermin for a city like St.
Petersburg, which produces all kinds of troublesome insects
spontaneously. There was this advantage in my quarters, in addition to
their cheapness--that the proprietor and attendants spoke several of
the Christian languages, including German, which, of all languages in
the world, is the softest and most euphonious to my ear--when I am
away from Frankfort. Besides, my room was very advantageously arranged
for a solitary traveler. Being about eight feet square, with only one
small window overlooking the back yard, and effectually secured by
iron fastenings, so that nobody could open it, there was no
possibility of thieves getting in and robbing me when the door was
shut and locked on the inside. Its closeness presented an effectual
barrier against the night air, which in these high northern latitudes
is considered extremely unwholesome to sleep in. With the thermometer
at 100 degrees Fahrenheit, the atmosphere, to be sure, was a little
sweltering during the day, and somewhat thick by night, but that was
an additional advantage, inasmuch as it forced the occupant to stay
out most of the time and see a great deal more of the town than he
could possibly see in his room.
Having deposited my knapsack and put my extra shirt in the wash, you
will now be kind enough to consider me the shade of Virgil, ready to
lead you, after the fashion of Dante, through the infernal regions or
any where else within the bounds of justice, even through St.
Petersburg, where the climate in summer is hot enough to satisfy
almost any body. The sun shines here, in June and July, for twenty
hours a day, and even then scarcely disappears beneath the horizon. I
never experienced such sweltering weather in any part of the world
except Aspinwall. One is fairly boiled with the heat, and might be
wrung out like a wet rag. Properly speaking, the day commences for
respectable people, and men of enterprising spirit--tourists,
pleasure-seekers, gamblers, vagabonds, and the like--about nine or ten
o'clock at night, and continues till about four or five o'clock the
next morning. It is then St. Petersburg fairly turns out; then the
beauty and fashion of the city unfold their wings and flit through the
streets, or float in Russian gondolas upon the glistening waters of
the Neva; then it is the little steamers skim about from island to
island, freighted with a population just waked up to a realizing sense
of the pleasures of existence; then is the atmosphere balmy, and the
light wonderfully soft and richly tinted; then come the sweet witching
hours, when
"Shady nooks
Patiently give up their quiet being."
None but the weary, labor-worn serf, who has toiled through the long
day in the fierce rays of the sun, can sleep such nights as these. I
call them nights, yet what a strange mistake. The sunshine still
lingers in the heavens with a golden glow; the evening vanishes
dreamily in the arms of the morning; there is nothing to mark the
changes--all is soft, gradual, and illusory. A peculiar and almost
supernatural light glistens upon the gilded domes of the churches; the
glaring waters of the Neva are alive with gondolas; miniature steamers
are flying through the winding channels of the islands; strains of
music float upon the air; gay and festive throngs move along the
promenades of the Nevskoi; gilded and glittering equipages pass over
the bridges and disappear in the shadowy recesses of the islands.
Whatever may be unseemly in life is covered by a rich and mystic
drapery of twilight. The floating bath-houses of the Neva, with their
variegated tressel-work and brilliant colors, resemble fairy palaces;
and the plashing of the bathers falls upon the ear like the gambols
of water-spirits. Not far from the Izaak Bridge, the equestrian
statue of Peter the Great stands out in bold relief on a pedestal of
granite; the mighty Czar, casting an eagle look over the waters of the
Neva, while his noble steed rears over the yawning precipice in front,
crushing a serpent beneath his hoof. The spirit of Peter the Great
still lives throughout Russia; but it is better understood in the
merciless blasts of winter than in the soft glow of the summer nights.
[Illustration: MERCHANT, PEDDLERS, AND COACHMAN.]
Wander with me now, and let us take a look at the Winter Palace--the
grandest pile, perhaps, ever built by human hands. Six thousand people
occupy it during the long winter months, and well they may, for it is
a city of palaces in itself. Fronting the Neva, it occupies a space of
several acres, its massive walls richly decorated with ornamental
designs, a forest of chimneys on top--the whole pile forming an
immense oblong square so grand, so massive, so wonderfully rich and
varied in its details, that the imagination is lost in a colossal
wilderness of architectural beauties. Standing in the open plozchad,
we may gaze at this magnificent pile for hours, and dream over it, and
picture to our minds the scenes of splendor its inner walls have
witnessed; the royal _fêtes_ of the Czars; the courtly throngs that
have filled its halls; the vast treasures expended in erecting it; the
enslaved multitudes, now low in the dust, who have left this monument
to speak of human pride, and the sweat and toil that pride must feed
upon; and while we gaze and dream thus, a mellow light comes down from
the firmament, and the mighty Czars, and their palaces, and armies,
and navies, and worldly strifes, what are they in the presence of the
everlasting Power? For "it is he that sitteth upon the circle of the
earth, and the inhabitants thereof are as grasshoppers."
But these dreamings and these wanderings through this city of palaces
would be endless. We may feast our eyes upon the Admiralty, the Winter
Palace, the Marble Palace, the Senate-house, the palace of the
Grand-duke Michael, the Column of Alexander, the colleges,
universities, imperial gardens and summer-houses, and, after all, we
can only feel that they are built upon the necks of an enslaved
people; that the mightiest Czars of Russia, in common with the poorest
serfs, are but "as grasshoppers upon the earth."
The _istrovoschik_ (sneeze and you have the word)--in plain English,
the drosky drivers--are a notable feature in St. Petersburg. When I
saw them for the first time on the quay of the Wassaly Ostrow, where
the steamer from Stettin lands her passengers, the idea naturally
impressed my mind that I had fallen among a brotherhood of Pilgrims or
Druids. Nothing could be more unique than the incongruity of their
costume and occupation. Every man looked like a priest; his long
beard, his grave expression of countenance, his little black hat and
flowing blue coat, gathered around the waist by means of a sash, his
glazed boots reaching above the knees, his slow and measured motions,
and the sublime indifference with which he regarded his customers,
were singularly impressive. Even the filth and rustiness which formed
the most prominent characteristics of the class contributed to the
delusion that they might have sprung from a Druidical source, and
gathered their dust of travel on the pilgrimage from remote ages down
to the present period. It is really something novel, in the line of
hackery, to see those sedate fellows sitting on their little droskys
awaiting a customer. The force of competition, however, has of late
years committed sad inroads upon their dignity, and now they are
getting to be about as enterprising and pertinacious as any of their
kindred in other parts of the world. The drosky is in itself a
curiosity as a means of locomotion. Like the driver, it is generally
dirty and dilapidated; but here the similitude ends; for, while the
former is often high, his drosky is always low. The wheels are not
bigger than those of an ordinary dog-cart, and the seat is only
designed for one person, though on a pinch it can accommodate two.
Generally it consists of a plank covered with a cushion, extending
lengthwise in the same direction as the horse, so that the rider sits
astride of it as if riding on horseback; some, however, have been
modernized so as to afford a more convenient seat in the usual way.
Night and day these droskys are every where to be seen, sometimes
drawn up by the sidewalk, the driver asleep, awaiting a customer, but
more frequently rattling full tilt over the pavements (the roughest
in the world) with a load, consisting, in nine cases out of ten, of a
fat old gentleman in military uniform, a very ugly old lady with a
lapdog, or a very dashy young lady glittering with jewels, on her way,
perhaps, to the Confiseur's or somewhere else. But in a city like St.
Petersburg, where it is at least two or three miles from one place to
another, every body with twenty kopecks in his pocket uses the drosky.
It is the most convenient and economical mode of locomotion for all
ordinary purposes, hence the number of them is very large. On some of
the principal streets it is marvelous how they wind their way at such
a rattling pace through the crowd. To a stranger unacquainted with
localities, they are a great convenience. And here, you see, commences
the gist of the story.
[Illustration: ISTROVOSCHIKS.]
On a certain occasion I called a drosky-man and directed him to drive
me to the United States Consulate. Having never been there myself, I
depended solely upon the intelligence and enterprise of the
istrovoschik. My knowledge of the Russian consisted of three
words--the name of the street and _dratzall kopeck_, the latter being
the stipulated fare of twenty kopecks. By an affirmative signal the
driver gave me to understand that he fully comprehended my wishes,
and, with a flourish of his whip, away we started. After driving me
nearly all over the city of St. Petersburg--a pretty extensive city,
as any body will find who undertakes to walk through it--this adroit
and skillful whipster, who had never uttered a word from the time of
starting, now deliberately drew up his drosky on the corner of a
principal street and began a conversation. I repeated the name of the
street in which the consulate was located, and _dratzall kopeck_. The
driver gazed in my face with a grave and placid countenance, stroked
his long beard, tucked the skirts of his long blue coat under him, and
drove on again. After rattling over a series of the most frightful
cobble-stone pavements ever designed as an improvement in a great
city, through several new quarters, he again stopped and treated me
to some more remarks in his native language. I answered as before, the
name of the street. He shook his head with discouraging gravity. I
then remarked _dratzall kopeck_. From the confused answer he made,
which occupied at least ten minutes of his time, and of which I was
unable to comprehend a single word, it was apparent that he was as
ignorant of his own language as he was of the city. In this extremity
he called another driver to his aid, who spoke just the words of
English, "Gooda-morkig!" "Good-morning," said I. From this the
conversation lapsed at once into remote depths of Russian. In despair
I got out of the drosky and walked along the street, looking up at all
the signs--the driver after me with his drosky, apparently watching to
see that I did not make my escape. At length I espied a German name on
a bakery sign. How familiar it looked in that desert of unintelligible
Russian--like a favorite quotation in a page of metaphysics. I went in
and spoke German--_vie gaetz?_ You are aware, perhaps, that I excel in
that language. I asked the way to the United States Consulate. The
baker had probably forgotten his native tongue, if ever he knew it at
all, for I could get nothing out of him but a shake of the head and
_nicht furstay_. However, he had the goodness, seeing my perplexity,
to put on his hat and undertake to find the consul's, which, by dint
of inquiry, he at length ascertained to be about half a mile distant.
We walked all the way, this good old baker and I, he refusing to ride
because there was only room for one, and I not liking to do so and let
him walk. The drosky-man followed in the rear, driving along very
leisurely, and with great apparent comfort to himself. He leaned back
in his seat with much gusto, and seemed rather amused than otherwise
at our movements. At length we reached the consulate. It was about
three hundred yards from my original point of departure. Any other man
in existence than my istrovoschik would have sunk into the earth upon
seeing me make this astounding discovery. I knew it by certain
landmarks--a church and a garden. But he did not sink into the earth.
He merely sat on his drosky as cool as a cucumber. I felt so grateful
to the worthy baker, who was a fat old gentleman, and perspired freely
after his walk, that I gave him thirty kopecks. The drosky-man claimed
forty kopecks, just double his fare. I called in the services of an
interpreter, and protested against this imposition. The interpreter
and the drosky-man got into an animated dispute on the question, and
must have gone clear back to the fundamental principles of droskyism,
for they seemed likely never to come to an end. The weather was warm,
and both kept constantly wiping their faces, and turning the whole
subject over and over again, without the slightest probability of an
equitable conclusion. At length my interpreter said, "Perhaps, sir,
you had better pay it. The man says you kept him running about for
over two hours; and since you have no proof to the contrary, it would
only give you trouble to have him punished." This view accorded
entirely with my own, and I cheerfully paid the forty kopecks; also
ten kopecks drink-geld, and a small douceur of half a ruble (fifty
kopecks) to the gentleman who had so kindly settled the difficulty for
me. After many years' experience of travel, I am satisfied, as before
stated, that a man may be born naturally honest, but can not long
retain his integrity in the hack business. He must sooner or later
take to swindling, otherwise he can never keep his horses fat, or make
the profession respectable and remunerative. Such, at least, has been
my experience of men in this line of business, not excepting the
istrovoschik of St. Petersburg.
CHAPTER II.
A PLEASANT EXCURSION.
I had the good fortune, during my ramble, to meet with a couple of
fellow-passengers from Stettin. One of them was a rough, weather-beaten
man of middle age, with rather marked features, but not an unkindly
expression. His mysterious conduct during the voyage had frequently
attracted my attention. There was something curious about his motions, as
if an invisible companion, to whom he was bound in some strange way,
continually accompanied him. He drank enormous quantities of beer, and
smoked from morning till night a tremendous meerschaum, which must have
held at least a pint of tobacco. When not engaged in drinking beer and
smoking, he usually walked rapidly up and down the decks, with his hands
behind him and his head bent down, talking in a guttural voice to himself
about "hemp." He slept--or rather lay down, for I don't think he ever
slept--with his head close to mine on a bench in the cabin, and it was a
continued source of trouble to me the way he puffed, and groaned, and
talked about "hemp." Sometimes he was half the night arguing with himself
about the various prices and qualities of this useful article, but I did
not understand enough of his _blat deutsch_ to gather the drift of the
argument. All I could make out was "_Zweimal zwei macht vier_--(a
puff)--_sechs und vierzig_--(a groan)--_acht und sechzig macht ein
hundert_--(a snort)--_sieben tausend_--_acht tausend fünf und dreissig
thaler_--(a sigh)--_schilling_--_kopeck_--_ruble_--_hemphf! Mein Gott!
Zwei und dreissig tausend_--_hemphf_--_ruble_--(a terrible gritting of
the teeth)--_sechs und fünfzig_--_Gott im Himmel!_--_Ich kann nicht
schlafen!_" Here he would jump up and shout "Kellner! Kellner! _ein
flask bier!_--_sechs und zechzig_--_zweimal acht und vierzig! Kellner,
flask bier!_--_Liebe Gott_--_was ist das?_--_Nine und sechzig_--_flask
bier!_ _Kleich! Kleich!_" When the beer came he would drink off three
bottles without stopping, then light his pipe, fill the cabin with smoke,
and after he had done that go on deck to get the fresh air. I could hear
him for hours walking up and down over my head, and thought I could
occasionally detect the words. "_Hemphf_--_ruble_--_thaler_--_fünfmal
sechs und zwanzig_--_mein Gott!_" It was evident the man was laboring
under some dreadful internal excitement about the price of hemp. What
could it be? Was he going to hang himself? Did he contemplate buying some
Russian hemp for that purpose especially? The mystery was heightened by
the fact that he was frequently in close conversation with the young man
whom I have already mentioned as my other fellow-passenger, and they both
talked about nothing else but hemp. What in the name of sense were they
going to do with hemp in Mechlenberg, their native country, where people
were beheaded--unless they meant to hang themselves? The mystery troubled
me so much that I finally made bold to ask the young man if his friend
had committed any serious crime, and whether that was the reason he
talked so much about hemp? These North Germans are a queer people. I
don't think they ever suspect any body to be joking. They take the most
outrageous proposition literally, and never seem to understand that there
can be two meanings to any thing. As Sydney Smith says of the Scotch, it
would take a surgical operation to get a joke well into their
understanding. When I propounded this question to my young
fellow-passenger--a very amiable and intelligent young man--he looked
distressed and horror-stricken, and replied with great earnestness, "Oh
no, he is a very respectable man. I am certain he never committed a crime
in his life." "But," said I, "if he doesn't intend to hang somebody, why
should he rave about hemp all night?" "Oh, he is a rope-maker. He is
going to Russia to buy a cargo of hemp, and he's afraid prices will go up
unless he gets there soon. The head wind and chopping sea keep us back a
good deal." "Yes, yes, I understand it all now. Suppose, my young friend,
you and I go to work and help the steamer along a little? It would be
doing a great service to the cause of hemp, and enable me to sleep
besides." The Mechlenberger looked incredulous. "How are we to do it?" he
asked at length. "Oh, nothing easier!" I answered. "Just put a couple of
these handspikes in the lee scuppers--so! and hold her steady!" At this
the Mechlenberger, who was a very genial and good-natured fellow, could
scarcely help laughing, the absurdity of the idea struck him so forcibly.
Seeing, however, that I looked perfectly in earnest, he was kind enough
to explain the erroneous basis of my calculation, and accordingly entered
into an elaborate mathematical demonstration to prove that what we gained
by lifting we would lose by the additional pressure of our feet upon the
decks! After this I was prepared to believe the story of the old
Nuremberger, who, when about to set out on his travels, got on top of his
trunk and took hold of each end for the purpose of carrying it to the
post station. The question about the hemp was too good to be lost, and my
young friend had too strong a business head not to perceive the
delightful verdancy of my character. He accordingly took the earliest
opportunity to mention it to his comrade, Herr Batz, the rope-maker, who
never stopped laughing about the mistake I had made till we got to St.
Petersburg. They were both very genial, pleasant fellows, and took a
great fancy to the Herr American who thought Herr Batz was going to hang
himself, and who had proposed to steady the steamer by means of a
handspike. Such primitive simplicity was absolutely refreshing to them;
and, since they enjoyed it, of course I did, and we were the best of
friends.
On the present occasion, after we had passed the usual compliments it
was proposed that we should hire a boat, as the night was fine, and
take a trip down to the Kamennoi Island. I was delighted to have two
such agreeable companions, and readily acceded to the proposition. A
young Russian in the hemp business accompanied us, and altogether we
made a very lively and humorous party. I was sorry, however, to be
prejudiced in the estimation of the Russian by having the hemp and
handspike story repeated in my presence, but finally got over that,
and changed the current of the conversation by asking if the Emperor
Alexander would send me to Siberia in case I smoked a cigar in the
boat? To which the Russian responded somewhat gravely that I could
smoke as many cigars on the water as I pleased, although it was
forbidden in the streets on account of the danger of fire; but that,
in any event, I would merely have to pay a fine, as people were only
sent to Siberia for capital crimes and political offenses.
We got a boat down near the Custom-house, at a point of the Vassoli
Ostrou, called the Strelka, and were soon skimming along through a
small branch of the Neva, toward the island of Krestofskoi. The water
was literally alive with boats, all filled with gay parties of
pleasure-seekers, some on their way to the different islands, some to
the bath-houses which abound in every direction, and all apparently
enjoying a delightful time of it. Passing to the right of the
Petrofskoi Island, whose grass-covered shores slope down to the water
like a green carpet outspread under the trees, we soon reached the
Little Nevka, about three miles from our starting-point. We
disembarked on the Krestofskoi Island, near the bridge which crosses
from Petrofskoi. On the right is a beautiful palace belonging to some
of the royal family, the gardens of which sweep down to the waters of
the Nevka, and present a charming scene of floral luxuriance.
Gondolas, richly carved and curiously shaped, lay moored near the
stone steps; the trestled bowers were filled with gay parties;
pleasant sounds of voices and music floated upon the air, and over
all a soft twilight gave a mystic fascination to the scene. I thought
of the terrible arctic winters that for six months in the year cast
their cold death-pall over the scene of glowing and tropical
luxuriance, and wondered how it could ever come to life again; how the
shrubs could bloom, and the birds sing, and the soft air of the summer
nights come back and linger where such dreary horrors were wont to
desolate the earth.
[Illustration: FISH PEDDLER.]
The constant dread of infringing upon the police regulations; the
extraordinary deference with which men in uniform are regarded; the
circumspect behavior at public places; the nice and well-regulated
mirthfulness, never overstepping the strict bounds of prudence, which
I had so often noticed in the northern states of Germany, and which
may in part be attributed to the naturally conservative and orderly
character of the people, are not the prominent features of the
population of St. Petersburg. It appeared to me that in this respect
at least they are more like Americans than any people I had seen in
Europe; they do pretty much as they please; follow such trades and
occupations as they like best; become noisy and uproarious when it
suits them; get drunk occasionally; fight now and then; lie about on
the grass and under the trees when they feel tired; enjoy themselves
to their heart's content at all the public places; and care nothing
about the police as long as the police let them alone. I rather
fancied there must be a natural democratic streak in these people, for
they are certainly more free and easy in their manners, rougher in
their dress, more independent in their general air, and a good deal
dirtier than most of the people I had met with in the course of my
travels. I do not mean to say that rowdyism and democracy are
synonymous, but I consider it a good sign of innate manliness and a
natural spirit of independence when men are not afraid to dress like
vagabonds and behave a little extravagantly, if it suits their taste.
It must be said, however, that the police regulations or St.
Petersburg, without being onerous or vexatious, are quite as good as
those of any large city in Europe. When men are deprived of their
political liberties, the least that can be done for them is to let
them enjoy as much municipal freedom as may be consistent with public
peace. I should never have suspected, from any thing I saw in the city
or neighborhood of St. Petersburg, that I was within the limits of an
absolute despotism. If one desires to satisfy himself on this point he
must visit the interior.
[Illustration: YOUNG PEASANTS.]
I was led into this train of reflection partly by the scenes I had
witnessed during my rambles through the city and on the way down the
river, and partly by what we now saw on the island of Krestofskoi. A
bridge unites this island with the Petrofskoi, and two other bridges
with the islands of Kamennoi and Elaghinskoi. It was eleven o'clock at
night, yet the twilight was so rich and glowing that one might readily
read a newspaper in any of the open spaces. The main avenues were
crowded with carriages of every conceivable description--the grandly
decorated coach of the noble, glittering with armorial bearings and
drawn by four richly-caparisoned horses; the barouche, easy and
elegant, filled with a gay company of foreigners; the drosky, whirling
along at a rapid pace, with its solitary occupant; the kareta, plain,
neat, and substantial, carrying on its ample seats some worthy
merchant and his family; the nondescript little vehicle, without top,
bottom, or sides--nothing but four small wheels and a cushioned seat
perched on springs, with an exquisite perched astride upon the street,
driving a magnificent blood horse at the rate of 2.40; and English
boxes with stiff Englishmen in them; and French chaises with loose
Frenchmen in them; and a New York buggy with a New York fancy man in
it; and hundreds of fine horses with dashing Russian officers in
uniform mounted on them, and hundreds of other horses with secretaries
and various young sprigs of nobility struggling painfully to stay
mounted on them; and, in short, every thing grand, fanciful, and
entertaining in the way of locomotion that the most fertile
imagination can conceive. Don't do me the injustice, I pray you, to
consider me envious of the good fortune of others in being able to
ride when I had to walk, for it does me an amazing deal of good to see
people enjoy themselves. Nothing pleases me better than to see a fat
old lady, glittering all over with fine silks and jewels, leaning back
in her cushioned carriage, with her beloved little lapdog in her
arms--two elegant drivers, four prancing horses, and a splendid little
postillion in front; two stalwart footmen, in plush breeches, behind,
with variegated yellow backs like a pair of wasps. Can any thing be
more picturesque? It always makes me think of a large June-bug dragged
about by an accommodating crowd of fancy-colored flies! And what can
be more imposing than a Russian grandee? See that terrific old
gentleman, sitting all alone in a gorgeous carriage, large enough to
carry himself and half a dozen of his friends. Orders and disorders
cover him from head to foot. He is the exact picture of a ferocious
bullfrog, with a tremendous mustache and a horribly malignant
expression of eye, and naturally enough expects every body to get out
of his way. That man must have had greatness thrust upon him, for he
never could have achieved it by the brilliancy of his intellect.
Doubtless he spends much of his time at the springs, but they don't
seem to have purified his body, or subdued the natural ferocity of his
temper. His wife must have a pleasant time. I wonder if he sleeps
well, or enjoys Herzain's essays on Russian aristocracy? But make way,
ye pedestrian rabble, for here comes a secretary of legation on
horseback--make way, or he will tumble off and inflict some bodily
injury upon you with the points of his waxed mustache! I know he must
be a secretary of legation by the enormous polished boots he wears
over his tight breeches, the dandy parting of his hair, the
supercilious stupidity of his countenance, and the horrible tortures
he suffers in trying to stick on the back of his horse. Nobody else in
the world could make such an ass of himself by such frantic attempts
to show off and keep on at the same time. I'll bet my life he thinks
he is the most beautiful and accomplished gentleman ever produced by a
beneficent Creator. Well, it is a happy thing for some of us that we
don't see ourselves as others see us; if we did, my friends in the
hemp business and myself would fare badly. Beregrissa! Padi!
Padi!--have a care! make way, for here comes a cloud of dust, and in
that cloud of dust is a kibitka, drawn by three wild horses, and in
that kibitka, half sitting, half clinging to the side, is an official
courier. Crack goes the whip of the _yamtschick_; the three fiery
horses fly through the dust; the courier waves his hand to an officer
on horseback, and with a whirl and a whisk they disappear. _Pashol!_ I
hope they won't break their necks before they get through.
[Illustration: DVORNICK AND POSTMAN.]
Soon the main road branches out in various directions, and we strike
off with the diverging streams of pedestrians, families of the middle
and lower classes, young men of the town, gay young damsels with their
beaux, burly tradesmen, tinkers, tailors, and hatters, waiters and
apprentices, sailors and soldiers, until we find ourselves in the
midst of a grand old forest. Open glades, pavilions, and tables are
visible at intervals; but for the most part we are in a labyrinthian
wilderness of trees, rich in foliage, and almost oppressive in their
umbrageous density, while
"Deep velvet verdure clothes the turf beneath,
And trodden flowers their richest odors breathe."
Insects flit through the still atmosphere; the hum of human voices,
softened by distance, falls soothingly upon the ear; and as we look,
and listen, and loiter on our way, we wonder if this can be the
dreamland of the arctic regions? Can there ever be snow-storms and
scathing frosts in such a land of tropical luxuriance? Thus, as we
lounge along in the mellow twilight amid the groves of Katrofskoi,
what charming pictures of sylvan enjoyment are revealed to us at every
turn! Rustic tables under the great wide-spreading trees are
surrounded by family groups--old patriarchs, and their children, and
great-grandchildren; the steaming urn of tea in the middle; the old
people chatting and gossiping; the young people laughing merrily; the
children tumbling about over the green sward. Passing on we come to a
group of Mujiks lying camp-fashion on the grass, eating their black
bread, drinking their vodka, and sleeping whenever they please--for
this is their summer home, and this grass is their bed. Next we come
to a group of officers, their rich uniforms glittering in the soft
twilight, their horses tied to the trees, or held at a little distance
by some attendant soldiers. Dominoes, cards, Champagne, and cakes are
scattered in tempting profusion upon the table, and if they are not
enjoying their military career, it is not for want of congenial
accompaniments and plenty of leisure. A little farther on we meet a
jovial party of Germans seated under a tree, with a goodly supply of
bread and sausages before them, singing in fine accord a song of their
faderland. Next we hear the familiar strains of an organ, and soon
come in sight of an Italian who is exhibiting an accomplished monkey
to an enraptured crowd of children. The monkey has been thoroughly
trained in the school of adversity, and makes horrible grimaces at his
cruel and cadaverous master, who in ferocious tones, and without the
least appearance of enjoying the sport, commands this miniature man to
dance, fire a small gun, go through the sword exercise, play on a
small fiddle, smoke a cigar, turn a somersault, bow to the company,
and hold out his hat for an unlimited number of kopecks. Herr Batz
suggests that such a monkey as that might be taught to spin ropes, and
our younger Mechlenberger laughs, and says he once read a story of a
monkey that shaved a cat, and then cut off his own or the cat's tail,
he could not remember which. This reminds the Russian of a countess in
Moscow who owned a beautiful little dog, to which she was greatly
attached. She required her serfs to call it "My noble Prince," and had
them well flogged with the knout whenever they approached it without
bowing. One day a cat got hold of the noble Prince, and gave him a
good scratching. The countess, being unable to soothe her afflicted
poodle, caused the cat's paws to be cut off, and served up on a plate
for his unhappy highness to play with--after which the noble pug was
perfectly satisfied! Of course, we all laughed at the Russian's story,
but he assured us it was a well authenticated fact, and was generally
regarded as a most delicate _jeu d'esprit_. Not to be behindhand in
the line of cats and monkeys, I was obliged to tell an anecdote of a
Frenchman, who, on his arrival in Algiers, ordered a ragout at one of
the most fashionable restaurants. It was duly served up, and
pronounced excellent, though rather strongly flavored. "Pray," said
the Frenchman to the _maître d'hotel_, "of what species of cat do you
make ragouts in Algiers?" "Pardon, monsieur," replied the polite host,
"we use nothing but monkeys in Africa!" Disgusted at this colonial
barbarism, the Frenchman immediately returned to Paris, where he
remained forever after, that he might enjoy his customary and more
civilized dish of cat. Herr Batz had not before heard of such a
thing, neither had the young Mechlenberger, and they both agreed that
cats must be a very disgusting article of food. The Russian, however,
seemed to regard it as nothing uncommon, and gave us some very
entertaining accounts of various curious dishes in the interior of
Russia, to which cats were not a circumstance.
[Illustration: GLAZIER, PAINTER, CARPENTERS.]
With such flimsy conversation as this we entertain ourselves till we
reach a village of summer residences on the Kamennoi Island. Here we
pause a while to enjoy the varied scenes of amusement that tempt the
loiterer at every step; the tea-drinking parties out on the porticoes,
the gambling saloons, the dancing pavilions, the cafés, the
confectioneries, with their gay throngs of customers, their gaudy
colors, their music, and sounds of joy and revelry. A little farther
on we come to a stand of carriages, and near by a gate and a large
garden. For thirty kopecks apiece we procure tickets of admission.
This is the Vauxhall of Kamennoi. We jostle in with the crowd, and
soon find ourselves in front of an open theatre.
So passes away the time till the whistle of a little steamer warns us
of an opportunity to get back to the city. Hurrying down to the wharf,
we secure places on the stern-sheets of a screw-wheeled craft not much
bigger than a good-sized yawl. It is crowded to overflowing--in front,
on top of the machinery, in the rear, over the sides--not a square
inch of space left for man or beast. The whistle blows again; the
fiery little monster of an engine shivers and screams with excess of
steam; the grim, black-looking engineer gives the irons a pull, and
away we go at a rate of speed that threatens momentary destruction
against some bridge or bath-house. It is now two o'clock A.M. The rays
of the rising sun are already reflected upon the glowing waters of the
Neva. Barges and row-boats are hurrying toward the city. Carriages are
rolling along the shady avenues of the islands. Crowds are gathered at
every pier and landing-place awaiting some conveyance homeward. Ladies
are waving their handkerchiefs to the little steamer to stop, and
gentlemen are flourishing their hats. The captain blows the whistle,
and the engineer stops the boat with such a sudden reversion of our
screw that we are pitched forward out of the seats. Some of the
passengers clamber up at the landing-places, and others clamber down
and take their places. The little engine sets up its terrific scream
again; the hot steam hisses and fizzes all over the boat; involuntary
thoughts of maimed limbs and scalded skins are palpably impressed upon
every face; but the little steamer keeps on--she is used to it, like
the eels, and never bursts up. Winding through the varied channels of
the Neva, under bridges, through narrow passes, among wood-boats,
row-boats, and shipping, we at length reach the landing on the Russian
Quay, above the Admiralty. Here we disembark, well satisfied to be
safely over all the enjoyments and hazards of the evening.
Evening, did I say? The morning sun is blazing out in all his glory!
We have had no evening--no night. It has been all a wild, strange,
glowing freak of fancy. The light of day has been upon us all the
time. And now, should we go to bed, when the sun is shining over the
city, glistening upon the domes of the churches, illuminating the
windows of the palaces, awaking the drowsy sailors of the Neva? Shall
we hide ourselves away in suffocating rooms when the morning breeze is
floating in from the Gulf of Finland, bearing upon its wings the
invigorating brine of ocean, or shall we,
"Pleased to feel the air,
Still wander in the luxury of light?"
CHAPTER III.
VIEWS ON THE MOSCOW RAILWAY.
The St. Petersburg and Moscow Railroad has been in operation some
eight or ten years, and has contributed much to the internal
prosperity of the country. In the summer of 1862 it was extended as
far as Vladimir, and now connects St. Petersburg with Nijni Novgorod,
one of the most important points in the empire, where the great annual
fair is held, where tea-merchants and others from all parts of Tartary
and China meet to exchange the products of those countries with those
of the merchants of Russia. During the present year (1862) it is
expected that the line of railway connection will be completed from
St. Petersburg to the Prussian frontier, and connect with the
railroads of Prussia, so that within twelve months it will be
practicable to travel by rail all the way from Marseilles or Bordeaux
to Nijni Novgorod.
The Moscow and St. Petersburg Railway is something over four hundred
miles in length, and consists of a double track, broad, well graded,
and substantially constructed. The whole business of running the line,
keeping the cars and track in repair, working the machine-shops, etc.,
embracing all the practical details of the operative department, is
let out by contract to an American company, while the government
supervises the financial department, and reserves to itself the
municipal control.[A] It is a remarkable fact, characteristic of the
Russians, that while they possess uncommon capacity to acquire all the
details of engineering, and are by no means lacking in mechanical
skill, they are utterly deficient in management and administrative
capacity. Wasteful, improvident, and short-sighted, they can never do
any thing without the aid of more sagacious and economical heads to
keep them within the bounds of reason. Thus, at one time, when they
undertook to run this line on their own account, although they started
with an extraordinary surplus of material, they soon ran the cars off
their wheels, forgetting to keep up a supply of new ones as they went
along; ran the engines out of working order; kept nothing in repair;
provided against no contingency; and were finally likely to break down
entirely, when they determined that it would be better to give this
branch of the business out by contract. One great fault with them is,
they labor under an idea that nothing can be done without an
extraordinary number of officers, soldiers, policemen, and employés of
every description--upon the principle, I suppose, that if two heads
are better than one, the ignorance or inefficiency of a small number
of employés can be remedied by having a very great number of the same
kind. In other words, they seem to think that if five hundred men can
not be industrious, skillful, and economical, five thousand trained in
exactly the same schools, and with precisely the same propensities,
must be ten times better. Even now there is not a station, and
scarcely a foot of the railway from St. Petersburg to Moscow, that is
not infested with an extraordinary surplus of useless men in uniform.
At the great dépôts in each of these cities the traveler is fairly
confused with the crowds of officers and employés through which he is
obliged to make his way. Before he enters the doorways, liveried
porters outside offer to take his baggage; then he passes by guards,
who look at him carefully and let him go in; then he finds guards who
show him where to find the ticket-office; when he arrives at the
ticket-office, he finds a guard or two outside, and half a dozen
clerks inside; then he buys his ticket, and an officer examines it as
he goes into the wirthsaal; there he finds other officers stationed to
preserve order; when the bell rings the doors are opened; numerous
officers outside show him where to find the cars, and which car he
must get into; and when he gets into a car he sits for a quarter of an
hour, and sees officers going up and down outside all the time, and
thinks to himself that people certainly can not be supposed to have
very good eyes, ears, or understanding of their own in this country,
since nobody is deemed capable of using them on his individual
responsibility. I only wonder that they don't eat, drink, sleep, and
travel for a man at once by proxy, and thereby save him the trouble of
living or moving at all. In fact, I had some thought of asking one of
these licensed gentlemen if the regulations could not be stretched a
point so as to embrace the payment of my expenses; but it occurred to
me that if I were relieved of that responsibility, they might
undertake at the same time to write these letters for me, which would
be likely to alter the tone and thereby destroy my individuality. But
it must be admitted that good order, convenience, politeness, and
comfort are the predominant characteristics of railway travel in
Russia. The conductors usually speak French, German, and English, and
are exceedingly attentive to the comfort of the passengers. The hours
of starting and stopping are punctually observed--so punctually that
you can calculate to the exact minute when you will arrive at any
given point. Having no watch, I always knew the time by looking at my
ticket. Between St. Petersburg and Moscow there are thirty-three
stations, seven of which are the grand stations of Lubanskaia,
Malovischerskaia, Okoulourskaia, Bologovskaia, Spirovskaia, Tver, and
Klinskaia. The rest are small intermediate stations. At every
seventy-five versts--about fifty miles--the cars stop twenty minutes,
and refreshments may be had by paying a pretty heavy price for them.
At the points above-named there are large and substantial edifices
built by the company, containing various offices, spacious
eating-saloons, ante-chambers, etc., and attached to which are
extensive machine-shops, and various outbuildings required by the
service. Occasionally towns may be seen in the vicinity of these
stations, but for the most part they stand out desolate and alone in
the dreary waste of country lying between the two great cities. At
every twenty-five versts are sub-stations, where the cars stop for a
few minutes. These are also large and very substantial edifices, but
not distinguished for architectural beauty, like many of the stations
in France and Germany. Usually the Russian station consists of an
immense plain circular building, constructed of brick, with very
thick walls, and a plain zinc roof, the outside painted red, the roof
green; wings or flanges built of the same material extending along the
track; a broad wooden esplanade in front, upon which the passengers
can amuse themselves promenading, and a neat garden, with other
accommodations, at one end. Some of the large stations are not only
massive and of enormous extent, but present rather a striking and
picturesque appearance as they are approached from the distance,
standing as they do in the great deserts of space like solitary
sentinels of civilization. The passengers rush out at every
stopping-place just as they do in other parts of the world, some to
stretch their limbs, others to replenish the waste that seems to be
constantly going on in the stomachs of the traveling public. I don't
know how it is, but it appears to me that people who travel by railway
are always either tired, thirsty, or hungry. The voracity with which
plates of soup, cutlets, sandwiches, salad, scalding hot tea, wine,
beer, and brandy are swallowed down by these hungry and thirsty
Russians, is quite as striking as any thing I ever saw done in the
same line at Washoe. But it is not a feature confined to Russia. I
notice the same thing every where all over the world; and what vexes
me about it is that I never get tired myself, and rarely hungry or
thirsty. Here, in midsummer, with a sweltering hot sun, and an
atmosphere that would almost smother a salamander, were whole legions
of officers, elegantly-dressed ladies, and a rabble of miscellaneous
second and third class passengers like myself, puffing, blowing,
eating, drinking, sweating, and toiling, as if their very existence
depended upon keeping up the internal fires and blowing them off
again. It is dreadful to see people so hard pushed to live. I really
can't conjecture what sort of a commotion they will make when they
come to die. A sandwich or two and a glass of tea lasted me all the
way to Moscow--a journey of eighteen hours, and I never suffered from
hunger, thirst, or fatigue the whole way. If I had "gone in" like
other people, I would certainly have been a dead man before I got half
way; and yet, I think, two sandwiches more would have lasted me to the
Ural Mountains. It continually bothers me to know how the human
stomach can bear to be tormented in this frightful way. Per Baccho! I
would as soon be shot in the hand with an escopette ball as drink the
quantity of wine and eat the quantity of food that I have seen even
women and children dispose of, as if it were mere pastime, on these
railway journeys. I think it must be either this or the frost that
accounts for the extraordinary prevalence of red noses in Russia, and
it even occurred to me that the stations are painted a fiery red, so
that when travelers come within range of the refracted color their
noses may look pale by contrast, and thereby remind them that it is
time to renew the caloric.
[A] This contract terminated last year (1865).
With the exception of the seventy-five versts between Moscow and Tver,
I can not remember that I ever traveled over so desolate and
uninteresting a stretch of country as that lying between St.
Petersburg and Moscow. For a short distance out of St. Petersburg
there are some few villas and farms to relieve the monotony of the
gloomy pine forests; then the country opens out into immense
undulating plains, marshy meadows, scrubby groves of young pine,
without any apparent limit; here and there a bleak and solitary
village of log huts; a herd of cattle in the meadows; a wretched,
sterile-looking farm, with plowed fields, at remote intervals, and so
on hour after hour, the scene offering but little variety the whole
way to Tver. The villages are wholly destitute of picturesque effect.
Such rude and miserable hovels as they are composed of could scarcely
be found in the wildest frontier region of the United States. These
cabins or hovels are built of logs, and are very low and small,
generally consisting of only one or two rooms. I saw none that were
whitewashed or painted, and nothing like order or regularity was
perceptible about them, all seeming to be huddled together as if they
happened there by accident, and were obliged to keep at close quarters
in order to avoid freezing during the terrible winters. Some of them
are not unlike the city of Eden in Martin Chuzzlewit. The entire
absence of every thing approaching taste, comfort, or rural beauty in
the appearance of these villages; the weird and desolate aspect of the
boggy and grass-grown streets; the utter want of interest in progress
or improvement on the part of the peasantry who inhabit them, are well
calculated to produce a melancholy impression of the condition of
these poor people. How can it be otherwise, held in bondage as they
have been for centuries, subject to be taxed at the discretion of
their owners; the results of their labors wrested from them; no
advance made by the most enterprising and intelligent of them without
in some way subjecting them to new burdens? Whatever may be the result
of the movement now made for their emancipation, it certainly can not
be more depressing than the existing system of serfage. Looking back
over the scenes of village life I had witnessed in France and
Germany--the neat vine-covered cottages, the little flower-gardens,
the orchards and green lanes, the festive days, when the air resounded
to the merry voices of laughing damsels and village beaux--
"The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade,
For talking age and whispering lovers made"--
the joyous dancers out on the village green, the flaunting banners and
wreaths of flowers hung in rich profusion over the cross-roads--with
such scenes as these flitting through my memory, I could well
understand that there is an absolute physical servitude to which men
can be reduced, that, in the progress of generations, must crush down
the human soul, and make life indeed a dreary struggle. In the
splendor of large cities, amid the glitter and magnificence of palaces
and churches, the varied paraphernalia of aristocracy and wealth, and
all the excitements, allurements, and novelties apparent to the
superficial eye, the real condition of the masses is not perceptible.
They must be seen in the country--in their far-off villages and homes
throughout the broad land; there you find no disguise to cover the
horrible deformities of their bruised and crushed life; there you see
the full measure of their civilization. In the huts of these poor
people there is little or no comfort. Many of them have neither beds
nor chairs, and the occupants spend a sort of camp life within doors,
cooking their food like Indians, and huddling round the earthen stove
or fireplace in winter, where they lie down on the bare ground and
sleep in a mass, like a nest of animals, to keep each other warm.
Their clothing is of the coarsest material, but reasonably good, and
well suited to the climate. The men are a much finer-looking race,
physically, than their masters. I saw some serfs in Moscow who, in
stature, strong athletic forms, and bold and manly features, would
compare favorably with the best specimens of men in any country. It
was almost incredible that such noble-looking fellows, with their
blue, piercing eyes and manly air, should be reduced to such a state
of abject servitude as to kiss the tails of their master's coats! Many
of them had features as bold and forms as brawny as our own California
miners; and more than once, when I saw them lounging about in their
big boots, with their easy, reckless air, and looked at their
weather-beaten faces and vigorous, sunburnt beards, I could almost
imagine that they were genuine Californians. But here the resemblance
ceased. No sooner did an officer of high standing pass, than they
manifested some abject sign of their degraded condition.
[Illustration: HAY GATHERERS.]
Some of the agricultural implements that one sees in this country
would astonish a Californian. The plows are patterned very much after
those that were used by Boaz and other large farmers in the days of
the Patriarchs; the scythes are the exact originals of the old
pictures in which Death is represented as mowing down mankind; the
hoes, rakes, and shovels would be an ornament to any museum, but are
entirely indescribable; and as for the wagons and harnesses--herein
lies the superior genius of the Russians over all the races of earth,
ancient or modern, for never were such wagons and such harnesses seen
on any other part of the globe. To be accurate and methodical, each
wagon has four wheels, and each wheel is roughly put together of rough
wood, and then roughly bound up in an iron band about four inches
wide, and thick in proportion. Logs of wood, skillfully hewed with
broad-axes, answer for the axle-tree; and as they don't weigh over
half a ton each, they are sometimes braced in the middle to keep them
from breaking. Upon the top of this is a big basket, about the shape
of a bath-tub, in which the load is carried. Sometimes the body is
made of planks tied together with bullock's hide, or no body at all
is used, as convenience may require. The wagon being thus completed,
braced and thorough-braced with old ropes, iron bands, and leather
straps, we come to the horses, which stand generally in front. The
middle horse is favored with a pair of shafts of enormous durability
and strength. He stands between these shafts, and is fastened in them
by means of ropes; but, to prevent him from jumping out overhead, a
wooden arch is out over him, which is the _chef-d'oeuvre_ of
ornamentation. This is called the _duga_, and is the most prominent
object to be seen about every wagon, drosky, and kibitka in Russia. I
am not sure but a species of veneration is attached to it. Often it is
highly decorated with gilding, painted figures, and every vagary of
artistic genius, and must cost nearly as much as the entire wagon.
Some of the _dugas_ even carry saintly images upon them, so that the
devout driver may perform his devotions as he drives through life. To
suppose that a horse could pull a wagon in Russia without this wooden
arch, the utility of which no human eye but that of a Russian can see,
is to suppose an impossibility. Now, the shafts being spread out so as
to give the horse plenty of room at each side, it becomes necessary,
since they are rather loosely hung on at the but-ends, to keep them
from swaying. How do you think this is done? Nothing easier. By
running a rope from the end of each shaft to the projecting end of the
fore axle, outside of the wheels. For this purpose the axle is made to
project a foot beyond the wheels, and the only trouble about it is
that two wagons on a narrow road often find it difficult to pass. It
is very curious to see these primitive-looking objects lumbering about
through the streets of Moscow and St. Petersburg. The horses are most
commonly placed three abreast. In the ordinary kibitka or traveling
wagon the outside horses are merely fastened by ropes, and strike out
in any direction they please, the whip and a small rein serving to
keep them within bounds. It is perfectly astonishing with what
reckless and headlong speed these animals dash over the rough
pavements. Just imagine the luxury of a warm day's journey in such a
vehicle, which has neither springs nor backed seats--three fiery
horses fastened to it, and each pulling, plunging, and pirouetting on
his own account; a ferocious yamtschick cracking his whip and
shrieking "Shivar! shivar!"--faster! faster!--the wagon, rattling all
over, plunging into ruts, jumping over stones, ripping its way through
bogs and mud-banks; your bones shaken nearly out of their sockets;
your vertebræ partially dislocated; your mouth filled with dust; your
tongue swollen and parched; your eyes blinded with grit; your
_yamtschick_ reeling drunk with _vodka_, and bound to draw to the
destined station--or some worse place; your confidence in men and
horses shaken with your bones; your views of the future circumscribed
by every turn of the road--oh! it is charming; it is the very climax
of human enjoyment. Wouldn't you like to travel in Russia?
In addition to the villages which are scattered at frequent intervals
along the route, the gilded dome of a church is occasionally seen in
the distance, indicating the existence of a town; but one seldom
catches more than a glimpse of the green-covered roofs of the houses,
over the interminable patches of scrubby pine. It is not a country
that presents such attractive features as to induce the mere tourist
to get out and spend a few days rambling through it. In these dreary
solitudes of marshes and pines, the inhabitants speak no other
language than their own, and that not very well; but well or ill, it
is all Greek--or rather Russian--to the majority of people from other
countries.
But, as I said before, this habit of digression will be the death of
me. Like a rocket, I start off splendidly, but explode and fall to
pieces in every direction before I get half way on my journey. If the
scintillations are varied and gayly colored, to be sure, the powder is
not utterly lost; but the trouble of it is, if one keeps going off
like rockets all the time, he will never get any where, and in the
end will leave nothing but smoke and darkness to the gaping multitude.
If my memory serves me, I was talking of the Emperor Alexander's convoy
of private railway carriages--the most magnificent affair of the kind,
perhaps, in existence. It was made purposely for his use, at a cost of
more than a hundred thousand dollars, and presented to him by the
American company, Winans and Company. Nothing so magnificent in
decoration, and so admirably adapted to the convenience, comfort, and
enjoyment of a royal party has ever been seen in Europe. The main
carriage--for there are several in the suite--called, _par excellence_,
the emperor's own, is eighty-five feet long, and something over the
usual width. It rests upon two undivided sleepers of such elastic and
well-grained wood that they would bear the entire weight of the
carriage, without the necessity of a support in the middle, forming a
single stretch or arch, from axle to axle, of about seventy feet. The
springs, wheels, brakes, and various kinds of iron-work, are of the
finest and most select material, and highly finished in every detail,
combining strength and durability with artistic beauty. The interior of
the main or imperial carriage is a masterpiece of sumptuous
ornamentation. Here are the richest of carvings; the most gorgeous
hangings of embroidered velvet; mirrors and pictures in profusion;
carpets and rugs that seem coaxing the feet to linger upon them;
tables, cushioned sofas, and luxurious arm-chairs; divans and lounges
of rare designs, covered with the richest damask; exquisite Pompeian
vases and brilliant chandeliers--all, in short, that ingenuity could
devise and wealth procure to charm the senses, and render this a
traveling palace worthy the imperial presence. Connected with the main
saloon is the royal bedchamber, with adjoining bathing and dressing
rooms, equally sumptuous in all their appointments. Besides which,
there are smoking-rooms, private offices, magnificent chambers for the
camarilla, the secretaries, and body-guard of the emperor. The whole
is admirably arranged for convenience and comfort; and it is said that
the motion, when the convoy is under way, is so soft and dreamy that it
is scarcely possible to feel a vibration, the effect being as if the
cars were floating through the air, or drawn over tracks of down. Fully
equal to this, yet more subdued and delicate in the drapery and
coloring, are the apartments of the empress. Here it may truly be said
is "the poetry of motion" realized--saloons fit for the angels that
flit through them, of whom the chiefest ornament is the empress
herself--the beautiful and beloved Maria Alexandrina, the charm of
whose presence is felt like a pleasant glow of sunshine wherever she
goes. Here are drawing-rooms, boudoirs, apartments for the beautiful
maids of honor, reading-rooms, and even a dancing-saloon, from which it
may well be inferred that the royal party enjoy themselves. If the
emperor fails to make himself agreeable in this branch of his
establishment, he deserves to be put out at the very first station. But
he has the ladies at a disadvantage, which probably compels them to be
very tolerant of his behavior; that is to say, he can detach their
branch of the establishment from his own, and leave them on the road at
any time he pleases by pulling a string; but I believe there is no
instance yet on record of his having availed himself of this autocratic
privilege. It is usually understood at the start whether the excursion
is to be in partnership or alone. When the emperor goes out on a
hunting expedition, he is accompanied by a select company of gentlemen,
and of course is compelled to deprive himself of the pleasure of the
more attractive and intoxicating society of ladies, which would be
calculated to unsteady his nerves, and render him unfit for those
terrific encounters with the bears of the forest upon which his fame as
a hunter is chiefly founded.
CHAPTER IV.
MOSCOW.
What the great Napoleon thought when he gazed for the first time
across the broad valley that lay at his feet, and caught the first
dazzling light that flashed from the walls and golden cupolas of the
Kremlin--whether some shadowy sense of the wondrous beauties of the
scene did not enter his soul--is more than I can say with certainty;
but this much I know, that neither he nor his legions could have
enjoyed the view from Sparrow Hill more than I did the first glimpse
of the grand old city of the Czars as I stepped from the railroad
dépôt, with my knapsack on my back, and stood, a solitary and
bewildered waif, uncertain if it could all be real; for never yet had
I, in the experience of many years' travel, seen such a magnificent
sight, so wildly Tartaric, so strange, glowing, and incomprehensible.
This was Moscow at last--the Moscow I had read of when a child--the
Moscow I had so often seen burnt up in panoramas by an excited and
patriotic populace--the Moscow ever flashing through memory in fitful
gleams, half buried in smoke, and flames, and toppling ruins, now
absolutely before me, a gorgeous reality in the bright noonday sun,
with its countless churches, its domes and cupolas, and mighty
Kremlin.
Stand with me, reader, on the first eminence, and let us take a
bird's-eye view of the city, always keeping in mind that the Kremlin
is the great nucleus from which it all radiates. What a vast, wavy
ocean of golden cupolas and fancy-colored domes, green-roofed houses
and tortuous streets circle around this magic pile! what a combination
of wild, barbaric splendors! nothing within the sweep of vision that
is not glowing and Oriental. Never was a city so fashioned for scenic
effects. From the banks of the Moskwa the Kremlin rears its glittering
crest, surrounded by green-capped towers and frowning embattlements,
its umbrageous gardens and massive white walls conspicuous over the
vast sea of green-roofed houses, while high above all, grand and
stern, like some grim old Czar of the North, rises the magnificent
tower of Ivan Veliki. Within these walls stand the chief glories of
Moscow--the palaces of the Emperor, the Cathedral of the Assumption,
the House of the Holy Synod, the Treasury, the Arsenal, and the Czar
Kolokol, the great king of bells. All these gorgeous edifices, and
many more, crown the eminence which forms the sacred grounds,
clustering in a magic maze of beauty around the tower of Ivan the
Terrible. Beyond the walls are numerous open spaces occupied by booths
and markets; then come the principal streets and buildings of the
city, encircled by the inner boulevards; then the suburbs, around
which wind the outer boulevards; then a vast tract of beautiful and
undulating country, dotted with villas, lakes, convents, and public
buildings, inclosed in the far distance by the great outer wall, which
forms a circuit of twenty miles around the city. The Moskwa River
enters near the Presnerski Lake, and, taking a circuitous route,
washes the base of the Kremlin, and passes out near the convent of St.
Daniel. If you undertake, however, to trace out any plan of the city
from the confused maze of streets that lie outspread before you, it
will be infinitely worse than an attempt to solve the mysteries of a
woman's heart; for there is no apparent plan about it; the whole thing
is an unintelligible web of accidents. There is no accounting for its
irregularity, unless upon the principle that it became distorted in a
perpetual struggle to keep within reach of the Kremlin.
It is sometimes rather amusing to compare one's preconceived ideas of
a place with the reality. A city like Moscow is very difficult to
recognize from any written description. From some cause wholly
inexplicable, I had pictured to my mind a vast gathering of tall,
massive houses, elaborately ornamented; long lines of narrow and
gloomy streets; many great palaces, dingy with age; and a population
composed chiefly of Russian nabobs and their retinues of serfs. The
reality is almost exactly the reverse of all these preconceived ideas.
The houses for the most part are low--not over one or two stories
high--painted with gay and fanciful colors, chiefly yellow, red, or
blue; the roofs of tin or zinc, and nearly all of a bright green,
giving them a very lively effect in the sun; nothing grand or imposing
about them in detail, and but little pretension to architectural
beauty. Very nearly such houses may be seen every day on any of the
four continents.
Still, every indication of life presents a very different aspect from
any thing in our own country. The people have a slow, slouching,
shabby appearance; and the traveler is forcibly reminded, by the
strange costumes he meets at every turn--the thriftless and degenerate
aspect of the laboring classes--the great lumbering wagons that roll
over the stone-paved streets--the droskies rattling hither and thither
with their grave, priest-like drivers and wild horses--the squads of
filthy soldiers lounging idly at every corner--the markets and
market-places, and all that gives interest to the scene, that he is in
a foreign land--a wild land of fierce battles between the elements,
and fiercer still between men--where civilization is ever struggling
between Oriental barbarism and European profligacy.
The most interesting feature in the population of Moscow is their
constant and extraordinary displays of religious enthusiasm. This
seems to be confined to no class or sect, but is the prevailing
characteristic. No less than three hundred churches are embraced
within the limits of the city. Some writers estimate the number as
high as five hundred; nor does the discrepancy show so much a want of
accuracy as the difficulty of determining precisely what constitutes
a distinct church. Many of these remarkable edifices are built in
clusters, with a variety of domes and cupolas, with different names,
and contain distinct places of worship--as in the Cathedral of St.
Basil, for instance, which is distinguished by a vast number of
variegated domes, and embraces within its limits at least five or six
separate churches, each church being still farther subdivided into
various chapels. Of the extraordinary architectural style of these
edifices, their many-shaped and highly-colored domes, representing all
the lines of the rainbow, the gilding so lavishly bestowed upon them,
their wonderfully picturesque effect from every point of view, it
would be impossible to convey any adequate idea without entering into
a more elaborate description than I can at present attempt.
But it is not only in the numberless churches scattered throughout the
city that the devotional spirit of the inhabitants is manifested.
Moscow is the Mecca of Russia, where all are devotees. The external
forms of religion are every where apparent--in the palaces, the
barracks, the institutions of learning, the traktirs, the
bath-houses--even in the drinking cellars and gambling-hells. Scarcely
a bridge or corner of a street is without its shrine, its pictured
saint and burning taper, before which every by-passer of high or low
degree bows down and worships. It may be said with truth that one is
never out of sight of devotees baring their heads and prostrating
themselves before these sacred images. All distinctions of rank seem
lost in this universal passion for prayer. The nobleman, in his gilded
carriage with liveried servants, stops and pays the tribute of an
uncovered head to some saintly image by the bridge or the roadside;
the peasant, in his shaggy sheepskin capote, doffs his greasy cap,
and, while devoutly crossing himself, utters a prayer; the soldier,
grim and warlike, marches up in his rattling armor, grounds his
musket, and forgets for the time his mission of blood; the tradesman,
with his leather apron and labor-worn hands, lays down his tools and
does homage to the shrine; the drosky-driver, noted for his petty
villainies, checks his horse, and, standing up in his drosky, bows low
and crosses himself before he crosses the street or the bridge; even
my guide, the saturnine Dominico--and every body knows what guides are
all over the world--halted at every corner, regardless of time, and
uttered an elaborate form of adjurations for our mutual salvation.
Pictures of a devotional character are offered for sale in almost
every booth, alley, and passage-way, where the most extraordinary
daubs may be seen pinned up to the walls. Saints and dragons,
fiery-nosed monsters, and snakes, and horrid creeping things, gilded
and decorated in the most gaudy style, attract idle crowds from
morning till night.
It is marvelous with what profound reverence the Russians will gaze at
these extraordinary specimens of art. Often you see a hardened-looking
ruffian--his face covered with beard and filth; his great, brawny form
resembling that of a prize-fighter; his costume a ragged blouse, with
loose trowsers thrust in his boots; such a wretch, in short, as you
would select for an unmitigated ruffian if you were in want of a model
for that character--take off his cap, and, with superstitious awe and
an expression of profound humility, bow down before some picture of a
dragon with seven heads or a chubby little baby of saintly parentage.
That these poor people are sincere in their devotion there can be no
doubt. Their sincerity, indeed, is attested by the strongest proofs of
self-sacrifice. A Russian will not hesitate to lie, rob, murder, or
suffer starvation for the preservation of his religion. Bigoted though
he may be, he is true to his faith and devoted to his forms of
worship, whatever may be his short-comings in other respects. It is a
part of his nature; it permeates his entire being. Hence no city in
the world, perhaps--Jerusalem not excepted--presents so strange a
spectacle of religious enthusiasm, genuine and universal, mingled with
moral turpitude; monkish asceticism and utter abandonment to vice;
self-sacrifice and loose indulgence. It may be said that this is not
true religion--not even what these people profess. Perhaps not; but it
is what they are accustomed to from infancy, and it certainly develops
some of their best traits of character--charity to each other,
earnestness, constancy, and self-sacrifice.
On the morning after my arrival in Moscow I witnessed from the window
of my hotel a very impressive and melancholy spectacle--the departure
of a gang of prisoners for Siberia. The number amounted to some two or
three hundred. Every year similar trains are dispatched, yet the
parting scene always attracts a sympathizing crowd. These poor
creatures were chained in pairs, and guarded by a strong detachment of
soldiers. Their appearance, as they stood in the street awaiting the
order to march, was very sad. Most of them were miserably clad, and
some scarcely clad at all. A degraded, forlorn set they were--filthy
and ragged--their downcast features expressive of an utter absence of
hope. Few of them seemed to have any friends or relatives in the crowd
of by-standers; but in two or three instances I noticed some very
touching scenes of separation--where wives came to bid good-by to
their husbands, and children to their fathers. Nearly every body gave
them something to help them on their way--a few kopecks, a loaf of
bread, or some cast-off article of clothing. I saw a little child
timidly approach the gang, and, dropping a small coin into the hand of
one poor wretch, run back again into the crowd, weeping bitterly.
These prisoners are condemned to exile for three, four, or five
years--often for life. It requires from twelve to eighteen months of
weary travel, all the way on foot, through barren wastes and
inhospitable deserts, to enable them to reach their desolate place of
exile. Many of them fall sick on the way from fatigue and
privation--many die. Few ever live to return. In some instances the
whole term of exile is served out on the journey to and from Siberia.
On their arrival they are compelled to labor in the government mines
or on the public works. Occasionally the most skillful and industrious
are rewarded by appointments to positions of honor and trust, and
become in the course of time leading men.
[Illustration: PRISONERS FOR SIBERIA.]
In contemplating the dreary journey of these poor creatures--a journey
of some fifteen hundred or two thousand miles--I was insensibly
reminded of that touching little story of filial affection, "Elizabeth
of Siberia," a story drawn from nature, and known in all civilized
languages.
Not long after the departure of the Siberian prisoners, I witnessed,
in passing along one of the principal streets, a grand funeral
procession. The burial of the dead is a picturesque and interesting
ceremony in Moscow. A body of priests, dressed in black robes and
wearing long beards, take the lead in the funeral cortége, bearing in
their hands shrines and burning tapers. The hearse follows, drawn by
four horses. Black plumes wave from the heads of the horses, and
flowing black drapery covers their bodies and legs. Even their heads
are draped in black, nothing being perceptible but their eyes. The
coffin lies exposed on the top of the hearse, and is also similarly
draped. This combination of sombre plumage and drapery has a
singularly mournful appearance. Priests stand on steps attached to the
hearse holding images of the Savior over the coffin; others follow in
the rear, comforting the friends and relatives of the deceased. A
wild, monotonous chant is sung from time to time by the chief mourners
as the procession moves toward the burial-ground. The people cease
their occupations in the streets through which the funeral passes,
uncover their heads, and, bowing down before the images borne by the
priests, utter prayers for the repose of the dead. The rich and the
poor of both sexes stand upon the sidewalks and offer up their humble
petitions. The deep-tongued bells of the Kremlin ring out solemn
peals, and the wild and mournful chant of the priests mingles with the
grand knell of death that sweeps through the air. All is profoundly
impressive: the procession of priests, with their burning tapers; the
drapery of black on the horses; the coffin with its dead; the weeping
mourners; the sepulchral chant; the sudden cessation of all the
business of life, and the rapt attention of the multitude; the deep,
grand, death-knell of the bells; the glitter of domes and cupolas on
every side; the green-roofed sea of houses; the winding streets, and
the costumes of the people--form a spectacle wonderfully wild,
strange, and mournful. In every thing that comes within the sweep of
the eye there is a mixed aspect of Tartaric barbarism and European
civilization. Yet even the stranger from a far-distant clime, speaking
another language, accustomed to other forms, must feel, in gazing upon
such a scene, that death levels all distinctions of race--that our
common mortality brings us nearer together. Every where we are
pilgrims on the same journey. Wherever we sojourn among men,
"The dead around us lie,
And the death-bell tolls."
CHAPTER V.
TEA-DRINKING.
The _traktirs_, or tea-houses, are prominent among the remarkable
institutions of Russia. In Moscow they abound in every street, lane,
and by-alley. That situated near the Katai Gorod is said to be the
best. Though inferior to the ordinary cafés of Paris or Marseilles in
extent and decoration, it is nevertheless pretty stylish in its way,
and is interesting to strangers from the fact that it represents a
prominent feature in Russian life--the drinking of _tchai_.
[Illustration: TEA-SELLERS.]
Who has not heard of Russian tea?--the tea that comes all the way
across the steppes of Tartary and over the Ural Mountains?--the tea
that never loses its flavor by admixture with the salt of the ocean,
but is delivered over at the great fair of Nijni Novgorod as pure and
fragrant as when it started? He who has never heard of Russian tea has
heard nothing, and he who has never enjoyed a glass of it may have
been highly favored in other respects, but I contend that he has
nevertheless led a very benighted existence. All epicures in the
delicate leaf unite in pronouncing it far superior to the nectar with
which the gods of old were wont to quench their thirst. It is truly
one of the luxuries of life--so soft; so richly yet delicately
flavored; so bright, glowing, and transparent as it flashes through
the crystal glasses; nothing acrid, gross, or earthly about it--a
heavenly compound that "cheers but not inebriates."
"A balm for the sickness of care,
A bliss for a bosom unbless'd."
Come with me, friend, and let us take a seat in the traktir. Every
body here is a tea-drinker. Coffee is never good in Russia. Besides,
it is gross and villainous stuff compared with the _tchai_ of Moscow.
At all hours of the day we find the saloons crowded with Russians,
French, Germans, and the representatives of various other nations--all
worshipers before the burnished shrine of _Tchai_. A little saint in
the corner presides especially over this department. The devout
Russians take off their hats and make a profound salam to this
accommodating little patron, whose corpulent stomach and smiling
countenance betoken an appreciation of all the good things of life.
Now observe how these wonderful Russians--the strangest and most
incomprehensible of beings--cool themselves this sweltering hot day.
Each stalwart son of the North calls for a portion of _tchai_, not a
tea-cupful or a glassful, but a genuine Russian portion--a tea-potful.
The tea-pot is small, but the tea is strong enough to bear an
unlimited amount of dilution; and it is one of the glorious privileges
of the tea-drinker in this country that he may have as much hot water
as he pleases. Sugar is more sparingly supplied. The adept remedies
this difficulty by placing a lump of sugar in his mouth and sipping
his tea through it--a great improvement upon the custom said to exist
in some parts of Holland, where a lump of sugar is hung by a string
over the table and swung around from mouth to mouth, so that each
guest may take a pull at it after swallowing his tea. A portion would
be quite enough for a good-sized family in America. The Russian makes
nothing of it. Filling and swilling hour after hour, he seldom rises
before he gets through ten or fifteen tumblersful, and, if he happens
to be thirsty, will double it--enough, one would think, to founder a
horse. But the Russian stomach is constructed upon some physiological
principles unknown to the rest of mankind--perhaps lined with
gutta-percha and riveted to a diaphragm of sheet-iron. Grease and
scalding-hot tea; _quass_ and cabbage soup; raw cucumbers; cold fish;
lumps of ice; decayed cheese and black bread, seem to have no other
effect upon it than to provoke an appetite. In warm weather it is
absolutely marvelous to see the quantities of fiery-hot liquids these
people pour down their throats. Just cast your eye upon that bearded
giant in the corner, with his hissing urn of tea before him, his
_batvina_ and his _shtshie_! What a spectacle of physical enjoyment!
His throat is bare; his face a glowing carbuncle; his body a monstrous
cauldron, seething and dripping with overflowing juices. Shade of
Hebe! how he swills the tea--how glass after glass of the steaming-hot
liquid flows into his capacious maw, and diffuses itself over his
entire person! It oozes from every pore of his skin; drops in globules
from his forehead; smokes through his shirt; makes a piebald chart of
seas and islands over his back; streams down and simmers in his boots!
He is saturated with tea, inside and out--a living sponge overflowing
at every pore. You might wring him out, and there would still be a
heavy balance left in him.
[Illustration: MUJIKS AT TEA.]
These traktirs are the general places of meeting, where matters of
business or pleasure are discussed; accounts settled and bargains
made. Here the merchant, the broker, the banker, and the votary of
pleasure meet in common. Here all the pursuits of human life are
represented, and the best qualities of men drawn out with the drawing
of the tea. Enmities are forgotten and friendships cemented in tea. In
short, the traktir is an institution, and its influence extends
through all the ramifications of society.
But it is in the gardens and various places of suburban resort that
the universal passion for tea is displayed in its most pleasing and
romantic phases. Surrounded by the beauties of nature, lovers make
their avowals over the irrepressible tea-pot; the hearts of fair
damsels are won in the intoxication of love and tea; quarrels between
man and wife are made up, and children weaned--I had almost said
baptized--in tea. The traveler must see the families seated under the
trees, with the burnished urn before them--the children romping about
over the grass; joy beaming upon every face; the whole neighborhood a
repetition of family groups and steaming urns, bound together by the
mystic tie of sympathy, before he can fully appreciate the important
part that tea performs in the great drama of Russian life.
CHAPTER VI.
THE PETERSKOI GARDENS.
This draws me insensibly toward the beautiful gardens of the
Peterskoi--a favorite place of resort for the Moskovites, and famous
for its chateau built by the Empress Elizabeth, in which Napoleon
sought refuge during the burning of Moscow. It is here the rank and
fashion of the city may be seen to the greatest advantage of a fine
summer afternoon. In these gardens all that is brilliant, beautiful,
and poetical in Russian life finds a congenial atmosphere.
I spent an evening at the Peterskoi which I shall long remember as one
of the most interesting I ever spent at any place of popular
amusement. The weather was charming--neither too warm nor too cold,
but of that peculiarly soft and dreamy temperature which predisposes
one for the enjoyment of music, flowers, the prattle of children, the
fascinations of female loveliness, the luxuries of idleness. In such
an atmosphere no man of sentiment can rack his brain with troublesome
problems. These witching hours, when the sun lingers dreamily on the
horizon; when the long twilight weaves a web of purple and gold that
covers the transition from night to morning; when nature, wearied of
the dazzling glare of day, puts on her silver-spangled robes, and
receives her worshipers with celestial smiles, are surely enough to
soften the most stubborn heart. We must make love, sweet ladies, or
die. There is no help for it. Resistance is an abstract impossibility.
The best man in the world could not justly be censured for practicing
a little with his eyes, when away from home, merely as I do, you know,
to keep up the expression.
The gardens of the Peterskoi are still a dream to me. For a distance
of three versts from the gate of St. Petersburg the road was thronged
with carriages and droskies, and crowds of gayly-dressed citizens, all
wending their way toward the scene of entertainment. The pressure for
tickets at the porter's lodge was so great that it required
considerable patience and good-humor to get through at all. Officers
in dashing uniforms rode on spirited chargers up and down the long
rows of vehicles, and with drawn swords made way for the
foot-passengers. Guards in imperial livery, glittering from head to
foot with embroidery, stood at the grand portals of the gate, and with
many profound and elegant bows ushered in the company. Policeman with
cocked hats and shining epaulets were stationed at intervals along the
leading thoroughfares to preserve order.
The scene inside the gates was wonderfully imposing. Nothing could be
more fanciful. In every aspect it presented some striking combination
of natural and artificial beauties, admirably calculated to fascinate
the imagination. I have a vague recollection of shady and undulating
walks, winding over sweeping lawns dotted with masses of flowers and
copses of shrubbery, and overhung by wide-spreading trees, sometimes
gradually rising over gentle acclivities or points of rock overhung
with moss and fern. Rustic cottages, half hidden by the luxuriant
foliage, crowned each prominent eminence, and little by-ways branched
off into cool, umbrageous recesses, where caves, glittering with
sea-shells and illuminated stalactites, invited the wayfarer to linger
a while and rest. Far down in deep glens and grottoes were retired
nooks, where lovers, hidden from the busy throng, might mingle their
vows to the harmony of falling waters; where the very flowers seemed
whispering love to each other, and the lights and shadows fell, by
some intuitive sense of fitness, into the form of bridal wreaths.
Marble statues representing the Graces, winged Mercuries and Cupids,
are so cunningly displayed in relief against the green banks of
foliage that they seem the natural inhabitants of the place.
Snow-spirits, too, with outspread wings, hover in the air, as if to
waft cooling zephyrs through the soft summer night. In the open spaces
fountains dash their sparkling waters high into the moonlight,
spreading a mystic spray over the sward. Through vistas of shrubbery
gleam the bright waters of a lake, on the far side of which the
embattled towers of a castle rise in bold relief over the intervening
groups of trees.
On an elevated plateau, near the centre of the garden, stands a series
of Asiatic temples and pagodas, in which the chief entertainments are
held. The approaching avenues are illuminated with many-colored lights
suspended from the branches of the trees, and wind under triumphal
archways, festooned with flowers. The theatres present open fronts,
and abound in all the tinsel of the stage, both inside and out. The
grounds are crowded to their utmost capacity with the rank and fashion
of the city, in all the glory of jeweled head-dresses and decorations
of order. Festoons of variegated lights swing from the trees over the
audience, and painted figures of dragons and genii are dimly seen in
the background.
[Illustration: RUSSIAN THEATRE.]
Attracted by sounds of applause at one of these theatres, I edged my
way through the crowd, and succeeded, after many apologies, in
securing a favorable position. Amid a motley gathering of Russians,
Poles, Germans, and French--for here all nations and classes are
represented--my ears were stunned by the clapping of hands and
vociferous cries _Bis! Bis!_ The curtain was down, but in answer to
the call for a repetition of the last scene it soon rose again, and
afforded me an opportunity of witnessing a characteristic performance.
A wild Mujik has the impudence to make love to the maid-servant of
his master, who appears to be rather a crusty old gentleman, not
disposed to favor matrimonial alliances of that kind. Love gets the
better of the lover's discretion, and he is surprised in the kitchen.
The bull-dog is let loose upon him; master and mistress and
subordinate members of the family rush after him, armed with
saucepans, tongs, shovels, and broomsticks. The affrighted Mujik runs
all round the stage bellowing fearfully; the bull-dog seizes him by
the nether extremities and hangs on with the tenacity of a vice. Round
and round they run, Mujik roaring for help, bull-dog swinging out
horizontally. The audience applauds; the master flings down his
broomstick and seizes the dog by the tail; the old woman seizes master
by the skirts of his coat; and all three are dragged around the stage
at a terrific rate, while the younger members of the family shower
down miscellaneous blows with their sticks and cudgels, which always
happen to fall on the old people, to the great satisfaction of the
audience. Shouts, and shrieks, and clapping of hands but faintly
express the popular appreciation of the joke. Finally the faithful
maid, taking advantage of the confusion, flings a bunch of
fire-crackers at her oppressors and blows them up, and the Mujik,
relieved of their weight, makes a brilliant dash through the door,
carrying with him the tenacious bull-dog, which it is reasonable to
suppose he subsequently takes to market and sells for a good price.
The curtain falls, the music strikes up, and the whole performance is
greeted with the most enthusiastic applause. Such are the
entertainments that delight these humorous people--a little broad to
be sure, but not deficient in grotesque spirit.
From the theatre I wandered to the pavilion of Zingalee gipsies, where
a band of these wild sons of Hagar were creating a perfect furor by
the shrillness and discord of their voices. Never was such terrific
music inflicted upon mortal ears. It went through and through you,
quivering and vibrating like a rapier; but the common classes of
Russians delight in it above all earthly sounds. They deem it the very
finest kind of music. It is only the dilettante who have visited Paris
who profess to hold it in contempt.
Very soon surfeited with these piercing strains, I rambled away till I
came upon a party of rope-dancers, and after seeing a dozen or so of
stout fellows hang themselves by the chins, turn back somersaults in
the air, and swing by one foot at a dizzy height from the ground, left
them standing upon each other's heads to the depth of six or eight,
and turned aside into a grotto to enjoy a few glasses of tea. Here
were German girls singing and buffoons reciting humorous stories
between the pauses, and thirsty Russians pouring down whole oceans of
their favorite beverage.
Again I wandered forth through the leafy mazes of the garden. The
gorgeous profusion of lights and glittering ornaments, the endless
variety of colors, the novel and Asiatic appearance of the temples,
the tropical luxuriance of the foliage, the gleaming white statuary,
the gay company, the wild strains of music, all combined to form a
scene of peculiar interest. High overhead, dimly visible through the
tops of the trees, the sky wears an almost supernatural aspect during
these long summer nights. A soft golden glow flushes upward from the
horizon, and, lying outspread over the firmament, gives a spectral
effect to the gentler and more delicate sheen of the moon; the stars
seem to shrink back into the dim infinity, as if unable to contend
with the grosser effulgence of the great orbs that rule the day and
the night. Unconscious whether the day is waning into the night, or
the night into the morning, the rapt spectator gazes and dreams till
lost in the strange enchantment of the scene.
At a late hour a signal was given, and the company wandered down to
the lake, along the shores of which rustic seats and divans,
overshadowed by shrubbery, afforded the weary an opportunity of
resting. Here we were to witness the crowning entertainment of the
evening--a grand display of fire-works. A miniature steam-boat, gayly
decorated with flags, swept to and fro, carrying passengers to the
different landing-places. Gondolas, with peaked prows and variegated
canopies, lay floating upon the still water, that lovers might quench
their flames in the contemplation of its crystal depths, or draw fresh
inspiration from the blaze of artificial fires. Soon a wild outburst
of music was heard; then from the opposite shore the whole heavens
were lighted up with a flood of rockets, and the ears were stunned by
their explosions. Down through the depths of ether came showers of
colored balls, illuminating the waters of the lake with inverted
streams of light scarcely less bright and glowing. Anon all was dark;
then from out the darkness flashed whirling and seething fires,
gradually assuming the grotesque forms of monsters and genii, till
with a deafening explosion they were scattered to the winds. From the
blackened mass of ruins stood forth illuminated statues of the
imperial family, in all the paraphernalia of royalty, their crowns
glittering with jewels, their robes of light resplendent with precious
gems and tracery of gold. A murmur of admiration ran through the
crowd. The imperial figures vanished as if by magic, and suddenly a
stream of fire flashed from a mass of dark undefined objects on the
opposite shore, and lo! the waters were covered with fiery swans,
sailing majestically among the gondolas, their necks moving slowly as
if inspired by life. Hither and thither they swept, propelled by
streams of fire, till, wearied with their sport, they gradually lay
motionless, yet glowing with an augmented brilliancy. While the eyes
of all were fixed in amazement and admiration upon these beautiful
swans, they exploded with a series of deafening reports, and were
scattered in confused volumes of smoke. Out of the chaos swept
innumerable hosts of whirling little monsters, whizzing and boring
through the water like infernal spirits of the deep. These again burst
with a rattle of explosions like an irregular fire of musketry, and
shot high into the air in a perfect maze of scintillating stars of
every imaginable color. When the shower of stars was over, and silence
and darkness once more reigned, a magnificent barge, that might well
have represented that of the Egyptian queen--its gay canopies
resplendent with the glow of many-colored lamps--swept out into the
middle of the lake, and
"Like a burnished throne
Burn'd on the water."
[Illustration: THE PETERSKOI GARDENS.]
And when the rowers had ceased, and the barge lay motionless, soft
strains of music arose from its curtained recesses, swelling up
gradually till the air was filled with the floods of rich, wild
harmony, and the senses were ravished with their sweetness.
Was it a wild Oriental dream? Could it all be real--the glittering
fires, the gayly-costumed crowds, the illuminated barge, the
voluptuous strains of music? Might it not be some gorgeous freak of
the emperor, such as the sultan in the Arabian Nights enjoyed at the
expense of the poor traveler? Surely there could be nothing real like
it since the days of the califs of Bagdad!
A single night's entertainment such as this must cost many thousand
rubles. When it is considered that there are but few months in the
year when such things can be enjoyed, some idea may be formed of the
characteristic passion of the Russians for luxurious amusements. It is
worthy of mention, too, that the decorations, the lamps, the actors
and operators, the material of nearly every description, are imported
from various parts of the world, and very little is contributed in any
way by the native Russians, save the means by which these costly
luxuries are obtained.
CHAPTER VII.
THE "LITTLE WATER."
On the fundamental principles of association the intelligent reader
will at once comprehend how it came to pass that, of all the traits I
discovered in the Russian people, none impressed me so favorably as
their love of vodka, or native brandy, signifying the "little water."
I admired their long and filthy beards and matted heads of hair,
because there was much in them to remind me of my beloved Washoe; but
in nothing did I experience a greater fellowship with them than in
their constitutional thirst for intoxicating liquors. It was
absolutely refreshing, after a year's travel over the Continent of
Europe, to come across a genuine lover of the "tarantula"--to meet at
every corner of the street a great bearded fellow staggering along
blind drunk, or attempting to steady the town by hugging a post.
Rarely had I enjoyed such a sight since my arrival in the Old World.
In Germany I had seen a few cases of stupefaction arising from
overdoses of beer; in France the red nose of the _bon vivant_ is not
uncommon; in England some muddled heads are to be found; and in
Scotland there are temperance societies enough to give rise to the
suspicion that there is a cause for them; but, generally speaking, the
sight of an intoxicated man is somewhat rare in the principal cities
of the Continent. It will, therefore, be conceded that there was
something very congenial in the spectacle that greeted me on the very
first day of my arrival in Moscow. A great giant of a Mujik, with a
ferocious beard and the general aspect of a wild beast, came toward me
with a heel and a lurch to port that was very expressive of his
condition. As he staggered up and tried to balance himself, he blurted
out some unmeaning twaddle in his native language which I took to be a
species of greeting. His expression was absolutely inspiring--the
great blear eyes rolling foolishly in his head; his tongue lolling
helplessly from his mouth; his under jaw hanging down; his greasy cap
hung on one side on a tuft of dirty hair--all so familiar, so
characteristic of something I had seen before! Where could it have
been? What potent spell was there about this fellow to attract me? In
what was it that I, an embassador from Washoe, a citizen of
California, a resident of Oakland, could thus be drawn toward this
hideous wretch? A word in your ear, reader. It was all the effect of
association! The unbidden tears flowed to my eyes as I caught a whiff
of the fellow's breath. It was so like the free-lunch breaths of San
Francisco, and even suggested thoughts of the Legislative Assembly in
Sacramento. Only think what a genuine Californian must suffer in being
a whole year without a glass of whisky--nay, without as much as a
smell of it! How delightful it is to see a brother human downright
soggy drunk; drunk all over; drunk in the eyes, in the mouth, in the
small of his back, in his knees, in his boots, clear down to his toes!
How one's heart is drawn toward him by this common bond of human
infirmity! How it recalls the camp, the one-horse mining town, the
social gathering of the "boys" at Dan's, or Jim's, or Jack's; and the
clink of dimes and glasses at the bar; how distances are annihilated
and time set back! Of a verity, when I saw that man, with reason
dethroned and the garb of self-respect thrown aside, I was once again
in my own beloved state!
"What a beauty dwelt in each familiar face,
What music hung on every voice!"
[Illustration: VODKA.]
Since reading is not a very general accomplishment among the lower
classes, a system of signs answers in some degree as a substitute. The
irregularity of the streets would of itself present no very remarkable
feature but for the wonderful variety of small shops and the oddity of
the signs upon which their contents are pictured. What these symbols
of trade lack in artistic style they make up in grotesque effects.
Thus, the tobacco shops are ornamented outside with various
highly-colored pictures, drawn by artists of the most florid genius,
representing cigar-boxes, pipes, meerschaums, narghillas, bunches of
cigars, snuffboxes, plugs and twists of tobacco, and all that the most
fastidious smoker, chewer, or snuffer can expect to find in any
tobacco shop, besides a good many things that he never will find in
any of these shops. Prominent among these symbolical displays is the
counterfeit presentment of a jet-black Indian of African descent--his
woolly head adorned with a crown of pearls and feathers; in his right
hand an uplifted tomahawk, with which he is about to kill some
invisible enemy; in his left a meerschaum, supposed to be the pipe of
peace; a tobacco plantation in the background, and a group of warriors
smoking profusely around a camp-fire, located under one of the tobacco
plants; the whole having a very fine allegorical effect, fully
understood, no doubt, by the artist, but very difficult to explain
upon any known principle of art. The butchers' shops are equally
prolific in external adornments. On the sign-boards you see every
animal fit to be eaten, and many of questionable aspect, denuded of
their skins and reduced to every conceivable degree of butchery; so
that if you want a veal cutlet of any particular pattern, all you have
to do is to select your pattern, and the cutlet will be chopped
accordingly. The bakeries excel in their artistic displays. Here you
have painted bread from black-moon down to double-knotted twist;
cakes, biscuit, rolls, and crackers, and as many other varieties as
the genius of the artist may be capable of suggesting. The bakers of
Moscow are mostly French or German; and it is a notable fact that the
bread is quite equal to any made in France or Germany. The
wine-stores, of which there are many, are decorated with pictures of
bottles, and bas-reliefs of gilded grapes--a great improvement upon
the ordinary grape produced by nature.
CHAPTER VIII.
THE MARKETS OF MOSCOW.
If there is nothing new under the sun, there are certainly a good many
old things to interest a stranger in Moscow. A favorite resort of mine
during my sojourn in that strange old city of the Czars was in the
markets of the Katai Gorod. Those of the Riadi and Gostovini Dvor
present the greatest attractions, perhaps, in the way of shops and
merchandise; for there, by the aid of time, patience, and money, you
can get any thing you want, from saints' armlets and devils down to
candlesticks and cucumbers. Singing-birds, Kazan-work, and Siberian
diamonds are its most attractive features. But if you have a passion
for human oddities rather than curiosities of merchandise, you must
visit the second-hand markets extending along the walls of the Katai
Gorod, where you will find not only every conceivable variety of old
clothes, clocks, cooking utensils, and rubbish of all sorts, but the
queerest imaginable conglomeration of human beings from the far East
to the far West. It would be a fruitless task to attempt a description
of the motley assemblage. Pick out all the strangest, most ragged,
most uncouth figures you ever saw in old pictures, from childhood up
to the present day; select from every theatrical representation
within the range of your experience the most monstrous and absurd
caricatures upon humanity; bring to your aid all the masquerades and
burlesque fancy-balls you ever visited, tumble them together in the
great bag of your imagination, and pour them out over a vague
wilderness of open spaces, dirty streets, high walls, and rickety
little booths, and you have no idea at all of the queer old markets of
the Katai Gorod. You will be just as much puzzled to make any thing of
the scene as when you started, if not more so.
[Illustration: OLD-CLOTHES' MARKET.]
No mortal man can picture to another all these shaggy-faced Russians,
booted up to the knees, their long, loose robes flaunting idly around
their legs, their red sashes twisted around their waists; brawny
fellows with a reckless, independent swagger about them, stalking like
grim savages of the North through the crowd. Then there are the sallow
and cadaverous Jew peddlers, covered all over with piles of ragged old
clothes, and mountains of old hats and caps; and leathery-faced old
women--witches of Endor--dealing out horrible mixtures of _quass_ (the
national drink); and dirty, dingy-looking soldiers, belonging to the
imperial service, peddling off old boots and cast-off shirts; and
Zingalee gipsies, dark, lean, and wiry, offering strings of beads and
armlets for sale with shrill cries; and so on without limit.
Here you see the rich and the poor in all the extremes of affluence
and poverty; the robust and the decrepit; the strong, the lame, and
the blind; the noble, with his star and orders of office; the Mujik in
his shaggy sheepskin capote or tattered blouse; the Mongolian, the
Persian, and the Caucasian; the Greek and the Turk; the Armenian and
the Californian, all intent upon something, buying, selling, or
looking on.
Being the only representative from the Golden State, I was anxious to
offer some Washoe stock for sale--twenty or thirty feet in the Gone
Case; but Dominico, my interpreter, informed me that these traders had
never heard of Washoe, and were mostly involved in Russian
securities--old breeches, boots, stockings, and the like. He did not
think my "Gone Case" would bring an old hat; and as for my "Sorrowful
Countenance" and "Ragged End," he was persuaded I could not dispose of
my entire interest in them for a pint of grease.
I was very much taken with the soldiers who infested these old
markets. It was something new in military economy to see the
representatives of an imperial army supporting themselves in this way;
dark, lazy fellows in uniform, lounging about with old boots, and
suspenders hanging all over them, crying out the merits of their wares
in stentorian voices, thus, as it were, patriotically relieving the
national treasury of a small fraction of its burden. They have much
the appearance, in the crowd, of raisins in a plum-pudding.
The peasant women, who flock in from the country with immense burdens
of vegetables and other products of the farms, are a very striking, if
not a very pleasing feature in the markets. Owing to the hard labor
imposed upon them, they are exceedingly rough and brawny, and have a
hard, dreary, and unfeminine expression of countenance, rather
inconsistent with one's notions of the delicacy and tenderness of
woman. Few of them are even passably well-looking. All the natural
playfulness of the gentler sex seems to be crushed out of them; and
while their manners are uncouth, their voices are the wildest and most
unmusical that ever fell upon the ear from a feminine source. When
dressed in their best attire they usually wear a profusion of red
handkerchiefs about their heads and shoulders; and from an
unpicturesque habit they have of making an upper waist immediately
under their arms by a ligature of some sort, and tying their
apron-strings about a foot below, they have the singular appearance of
being double-waisted or three-story women. They carry their children
on their backs, much after the fashion of Digger Indians, and suckle
them through an opening in the second or middle story. Doubtless this
is a convenient arrangement, but it presents the curious anomaly of a
poor peasant living in a one-story house with a three-story wife.
According to the prevailing style of architecture in well-wooded
countries, these women ought to wear their hair shingled; but they
generally tie it up in a knot behind, or cover it with a fancy-colored
handkerchief, on the presumption, I suppose, that they look less
barbarous in that way than they would with shingled heads. You may
suspect me of story-telling, but upon my word I think three-story
women are extravagant enough without adding another to them. I only
hope their garrets contain a better quality of furniture than that
which afflicts the male members of the Mujik community. No wonder
those poor women have families of children like steps of stairs! It is
said that their husbands are often very cruel to them, and think
nothing of knocking them down and beating them; but even that does not
surprise me. How can a man be expected to get along with a three-story
wife unless he floors her occasionally?
Ragged little boys, prematurely arrested in their growth, you see too,
in myriads--shovel-nosed and bare-legged urchins of hideously
eccentric manners, carrying around big bottles of _sbiteen_ (a kind of
mead), which they are continually pouring out into glasses, to appease
the chronic thirst with which the public seem to be afflicted; and
groups of the natives gathered around a cucumber stand, devouring
great piles of unwholesome-looking cucumbers, which skinny old women
are dipping up out of wooden buckets. The voracity with which all
classes stow away these vicious edibles in their stomachs is amazing,
and suggests a melancholy train of reflections on the subject of
cholera morbus. It was a continual matter of wonder to me how the
lower classes of Russians survived the horrid messes with which they
tortured their digestive apparatus. Only think of thousands of men
dining every day on black bread, heavy enough for bullets, a pound or
two of grease, and half a peck of raw cucumbers per man, and then
expecting to live until next morning! And yet they do live, and grow
fat, and generally die at a good old age, in case they are not killed
in battle, or frozen up in the wilds of Siberia.
Outside the walls of the Katai Gorod, in an open square, or plaza, are
rows of wooden booths, in which innumerable varieties of living stock
are offered for sale--geese, ducks, chickens, rabbits, pigeons, and
birds of various sorts. I sometimes went down here and bargained for
an hour or so over a fat goose or a Muscovy duck, not with any
ultimate idea of purchasing it, but merely because it was offered to
me at a reduced price. It was amusing, also, to study the manners and
customs of the dealer, and enjoy their amazement when, after causing
them so much loss of time, I would hand over five kopeks and walk off.
Some of them, I verily believe, will long entertain serious doubts as
to the sanity of the Californian public; for Dominico, my guide,
always took particular pride in announcing that I was from that great
country, and was the richest man in it, being, to the best of his
knowledge, the only one who had money enough to spare to travel all
the way to Moscow, merely for the fun of the thing.
I may as well mention, parenthetically, that Dominico was rather an
original in his way. His father was an Italian and his mother a
Russian. I believe he was born in Moscow. How he came to adopt the
profession of guide I don't know, unless it was on account of some
natural proclivity for an easy life. A grave, lean, saturnine man was
Dominico--something of a cross between Machiavelli and Paganini. If he
knew any thing about the wonders and curiosities of Moscow he kept it
a profound secret. It was only by the most rigid inquiry and an adroit
system of cross-examination that I could get any thing out of him, and
then his information was vague and laconic, sometimes a little
sarcastic, but never beyond what I knew myself. Yet he was polite,
dignified, and gentlemanly--never refused to drink a glass of beer
with me, and always knew the way to a traktir. To the public
functionaries with whom we came in contact during the course of our
rambles his air was grand and imposing; and on the subject of money he
was sublimely nonchalant, caring no more for rubles than I did for
kopeks. Once or twice he hinted to me that he was of noble blood, but
laid no particular stress upon that, since it was his misfortune at
present to be in rather reduced circumstances. Some time or other he
would go to Italy and resume his proper position there. In justice to
Dominico, I must add that he never neglected an opportunity of praying
for me before any of the public shrines; and at the close of our
acquaintance he let me off pretty easily, all things considered. Upon
my explaining to him that a draft for five hundred thousand rubles,
which ought to be on the way, had failed to reach me, owing,
doubtless, to some irregularity in the mail service, or some sudden
depression in my Washoe stocks, he merely shrugged his shoulders, took
a pinch of snuff, and accepted with profound indifference a fee
amounting to three times the value of his services.
I was particularly interested in the dog-market. The display of living
dog-flesh here must be very tempting to one who has a taste for poodle
soup or fricasseed pup. Dominico repudiated the idea that the Russians
are addicted to this article of diet; but the very expression of his
eye as he took up a fat little innocent, smoothed down its skin,
squeezed its ribs, pinched its loins, and smelled it, satisfied me
that a litter of pups would stand but a poor chance of ever arriving
at maturity if they depended upon forbearance upon his part as a
national virtue. The Chinese quarter of San Francisco affords some
curious examples of the art of compounding sustenance for man out of
odd materials--rats, snails, dried frogs, star-fish, polypi, and the
like; but any person who wishes to indulge a morbid appetite for the
most disgusting dishes over devised by human ingenuity must visit
Moscow. I adhere to it that the dog-market supplies a large portion of
the population with fancy meats. No other use could possibly be made
of the numberless squads of fat, hairless dogs tied together and
hawked about by the traders in this article of traffic. I saw one
man--he had the teeth of an ogre and a fearfully carnivorous
expression of eye--carry around a bunch of pups on each arm, and cry
aloud something in his native tongue, which I am confident had
reference to the tenderness and juiciness of their flesh. Dominico
declared the man was only talking about the breed--that they were fine
rat-dogs; but I know that was a miserable subterfuge. Such dogs never
caught a rat in this world; and if they did, it must have been with a
view to the manufacture of sausages.
[Illustration: CABINET-MAKERS.]
A Russian peasant is not particular about the quality of his food, as
may well be supposed from this general summary. Quantity is the main
object. Grease of all kinds is his special luxury. The upper classes,
who have plenty of money to spare, may buy fish from the Volga at its
weight in gold, and mutton from Astrakan at fabulous prices; but give
the Mujik his _batvina_ (salt grease and honey boiled together), a
loaf of black bread, and a peck of raw cucumbers, and he is happy.
Judging by external appearances, very little grease seems to be wasted
in the manufacture of soap. Indeed, I would not trust one of these
Mujiks to carry a pound of soap any where for me, any more than I
would a gallon of oil or a pound of candles. Once I saw a fellow
grease his boots with a lump of dirty fat which he had picked up out
of the gutter, but he took good care first to extract from it the
richest part of its essence by sucking it, and then greasing his
beard. The boots came last. In all probability he had just dined, or
he would have pocketed his treasure for another occasion, instead of
throwing the remnant, as he did, to the nearest cat.
In respect to the language, one might as well be dropped down in
Timbuctoo as in a village or country town of Russia, for all the good
the gift of speech would do him. It is not harsh, as might be
supposed, yet wonderfully like an East India jungle when you attempt
to penetrate it. I could make better headway through a boulder of
solid quartz, or the title to my own house and lot in Oakland. Now I
profess to be able to see as far into a millstone as most people, but
I can't see in what respect the Russians behaved any worse than other
people of the Tower of Babel, that they should be afflicted with a
language which nobody can hope to understand before his beard becomes
grizzled, and the top of his head entirely bald. Many of the better
classes, to be sure, speak French and German; but even in the streets
of Moscow I could seldom find any body who could discover a ray of
meaning in my French or German, which is almost as plain as English.
Some people know what you want by instinct, whether they understand
your language or not. Not so the Russians. Ask for a horse, and they
will probably offer you a fat goose; inquire the way to your
lodgings, and they are just as likely as not to show you the Foundling
Hospital or a livery-stable; go into an old variety shop, and express
a desire to purchase an Astrakan breast-pin for your sweet-heart, and
the worthy trader hands you a pair of bellows or an old blunderbuss;
cast your eye upon any old market-woman, and she divines at once that
you are in search of a bunch of chickens or a bucket of raw cucumbers,
and offers them to you at the lowest market-price; hint to a
picture-dealer that you would like to have an authentic portrait of
his imperial majesty, and he hands you a picture of the Iberian
Mother, or St. George slaying the dragon, or the devil and all his
imps; in short, you can get any thing that you don't want, and nothing
that you do. If these people are utterly deficient in any one quality,
it is a sense of fitness in things. They take the most inappropriate
times for offering you the most inappropriate articles of human use
that the imagination can possibly conceive. I was more than once
solicited by the dealers in the markets of Moscow to carry with me a
bunch of live dogs, or a couple of freshly-scalded pigs, and on one
occasion was pressed very hard to take a brass skillet and a pair of
tongs. What could these good people have supposed I wanted with
articles of this kind on my travels? Is there any thing in my dress or
the expression of my countenance--I leave it to all who know me--any
thing in the mildness of my speech or the gravity of my manner, to
indicate that I am suffering particularly for bunches of dogs or
scalded pigs, brass skillets or pairs of tongs? Do I look like a man
who labors under a chronic destitution of dogs, pigs, skillets, and
tongs?
[Illustration: PIGS, PUPS, AND PANS.]
It is quite natural that the traveler who finds himself for the first
time within the limits of a purely despotic government should look
around him with some vague idea that he must see the effects strongly
marked upon the external life of the people; that the restraints
imposed upon popular liberty must be every where apparent. So far as
any thing of this kind may exist in Moscow or St. Petersburg, it is a
notable fact that there are few cities in the world where it is less
visible, or where the people seem more unrestrained in the exercise of
their popular freedom. Indeed, it struck me rather forcibly, after my
experience in Vienna and Berlin, that the Russians enjoy quite as
large a share of practical independence as most of their neighbors. I
was particularly impressed by the bold and independent air of the
middle classes, the politeness with which even the lower orders
address each other, and the absence of those petty and vexatious
restraints which prevail in some of the German states. The constant
dread of infringing upon the police regulations; the extraordinary
deference with which men in uniform are regarded; the circumspect
behavior at public places; the nice and well-regulated mirthfulness,
never overstepping the strict bounds of prudence, which I had so often
noticed in the northern parts of Germany, and which may in part be
attributed to the naturally orderly and conservative character of the
people, are by no means prominent features in the principal cities of
Russia.
Soldiers, indeed, there are in abundance every where throughout the
dominions of the Czar, and the constant rattle of musketry and clang
of arms show that the liberty of the people is not altogether without
limit.
CHAPTER IX.
THE NOSE REGIMENT.
I saw nothing in the line of military service that interested me more
than the Imperial Guard. Without vouching for the truth of the whole
story connected with the history of this famous regiment, I give it as
related to me by Dominico, merely stating as a fact within my own
observation that there is no question whatever about the peculiarity
of their features. It seems that the Emperor Nicholas, shortly before
the Crimean War, discovered by some means that the best fighting men
in his dominions belonged to a certain wild tribe from the north,
distinguished for the extreme ugliness of their faces. The most
remarkable feature was the nose, which stood straight out from the
base of the forehead in the form of a triangle, presenting in front
the appearance of a double-barreled pistol. A stiff grizzly mustache
underneath gave them a peculiarly ferocious expression, so that brave
men quailed, and women and children fled from them in terror. The
emperor gave orders that all men in the ranks possessed of these
frightful noses should be brought before him. Finding, when they were
mustered together, that there was not over one company, he caused a
general average of the noses to be taken, from which he had a diagram
carefully prepared and disseminated throughout the empire, calling
upon the military commanders of the provinces to send him recruits
corresponding with the prescribed formula.
In due time he was enabled to muster a thousand of these ferocious
barbarians, whom he caused to be carefully drilled and disciplined. He
kept them in St. Petersburg under his own immediate supervision till
some time after the attack upon Sebastopol, when, finding the fortunes
of war likely to go against him, he sent them down to the Crimea, with
special instructions to the commander-in-chief to rely upon them in
any emergency. In compliance with the imperial order, they were at
once placed in the front ranks, and in a very few days had occasion to
display their fighting qualities. At the very first onslaught of the
enemy they stood their ground manfully till the French troops had
approached within ten feet, when, with one accord, they took to their
heels, and never stopped running till they were entirely out of sight.
It was a disastrous day for the Russians. The commander-in-chief was
overwhelmed with shame and mortification. A detachment of cavalry was
dispatched in pursuit of the fugitives, who were finally arrested in
their flight and brought back. "Cowards!" thundered the enraged
commander, as they stood drawn up before him; "miserable poltroons!
dastards! is this the way you do honor to your imperial master? Am I
to report to his most potent majesty that, without striking one blow
in his defense, you ran like sheep? Wretches, what have you to say for
yourselves?"
[Illustration: IMPERIAL NOSEGAY.]
"May it please your excellency," responded the men, firmly and with
unblenched faces, "we ran away, it is true; but we are not cowards. On
the contrary, sire, we are brave men, and fear neither man nor beast.
But your excellency is aware that nature has gifted us with noses
peculiarly open to unusual impressions. We have smelled all the
smells known from the far North to the far South, from the stewed rats
of Moscow to the carrion that lies mouldering upon the plains of the
Crimea; but, if it please your highness, we never smelled Frenchmen
before. There was an unearthly odor about them that filled our
nostrils, and struck a mysterious terror into our souls."
"Fools!" roared the commander-in-chief, bursting with rage, "what you
smelled was nothing more than garlic, to which these Frenchmen are
addicted."
"Call it as you will," firmly responded the men with the noses, "it
was too horrible to be endured. We are willing to die by the natural
casualties of war, but not by unseen blasts of garlic, against which
no human power can contend."
"Then," cried the commander, in tones of thunder, "I'll see that you
die to-morrow by the natural casualties of war. You shall be put in
the very front rank, and care shall be taken to have every man of you
shot down the moment you undertake to run."
On the following day this rigorous order was carried into effect. The
nose regiment was placed in front, and the battle opened with great
spirit. The French troops swept down upon them like an avalanche. For
an instant they looked behind, but, finding no hope of escape in that
direction, each man of them suddenly grasped up a handful of mud, and,
dashing it over his nostrils, shouted "Death, to the garlic-eaters!"
and rushed against the enemy with indescribable ferocity. Never before
were such prodigies of valor performed on the field of battle. The
French went down like stricken reeds before the ferocious onslaught of
the Imperial Guard. Their dead bodies lay piled in heaps on the bloody
field. The fortunes of the day were saved, and, panting and bleeding,
the men of Noses stood triumphantly in the presence of their chief. In
an ecstasy of pride and delight he complimented them upon their valor,
and pronounced them the brightest nosegay in his imperial majesty's
service, which name they have borne ever since.
CHAPTER X.
THE EMPEROR'S BEAR-HUNT.
The present emperor, Alexander III., is more distinguished for his
liberal views respecting the rights of his subjects than for his
military proclivities. In private life he is much beloved, and is said
to be a man of very genial social qualities. His predominating passion
in this relation is a love of hunting. I have been told that he is
especially great on bears. With all your experience of this manly
pastime in America, I doubt if you can form any conception of the
bear-hunts in which the Autocrat of all the Russias has distinguished
himself. Any body with nerve enough can kill a grizzly, but it
requires both nerve and money to kill bears of any kind in the genuine
autocratic style. By an imperial ukase it has been ordered that when
any of the peasants or serfs discover a bear within twenty versts of
the Moscow and St. Petersburg Railway, they must make known the fact
to the proprietor of the estate, whose duty it is to communicate
official information of the discovery to the corresponding secretary
of the Czar. With becoming humility the secretary announces the
tidings to his royal master, who directs him to advise the distant
party that his majesty is much pleased, and will avail himself of his
earliest leisure to proceed to the scene of action. In the mean time
the entire available force of the estate is set to work to watch the
bear, and from three to five hundred men, armed with cudgels, tin
pans, old kettles, drums, etc., are stationed in a circle around him.
Dogs also are employed upon this important service. The advance
trains, under the direction of the master hunter, having deposited
their stores of wines, cordials, and provisions, and telegraphic
communications being transmitted to head-quarters from time to time,
it is at length privately announced that his imperial majesty has
condescended to honor the place with his presence, and, should the
saints not prove averse, will be there with his royal party at the
hour and on the day specified in the imperial dispatch. The grand
convoy is then put upon the track; dispatches are transmitted to all
the stations; officers, soldiers, and guards are required to be in
attendance to do honor to their sovereign master--privately, of
course, as this is simply an unofficial affair which nobody is
supposed to know any thing about. The emperor, having selected his
chosen few--that is to say, half a dozen princes, a dozen dukes, a
score or two of counts and barons--all fine fellows and genuine
bloods--proceeds unostentatiously to the dépôt in his hunting-carriage
(a simple little affair, manufactured at a cost of only forty thousand
rubles or so), where he is astonished to see a large concourse of
admiring subjects, gayly interspersed with soldiers, all accidentally
gathered there to see him off. Now hats are removed, bows are made,
suppressed murmurs of delight run through the crowd; the locomotive
whizzes and fizzes with impatience; bells are rung, arms are grounded;
the princes, dukes, and barons--jolly fellows as they are--laugh and
joke just like common people; bells ring again and whistles blow; a
signal is made, and the Autocrat of all the Russias is off on his
bear-hunt!
In an hour, or two or three hours, as the case may be, the royal
hunters arrive at the destined station. Should the public business be
pressing, it is not improbable the emperor, availing himself of the
conveniences provided for him by Winans and Co., in whose magnificent
present of a railway carriage he travels, has in the mean time
dispatched a fleet of vessels to Finland, ten or a dozen extra
regiments of Cossacks to Warsaw, closed upon terms for a loan of fifty
millions, banished various objectionable parties to the deserts of
Siberia, and partaken of a game or two of whist with his camarilla.
But now the important affair of the day is at hand--the bear--the
terrible black bear, which every body is fully armed and equipped to
kill, but which every body knows by instinct is going to be killed by
the emperor, because of his majesty's superior skill and courage on
trying occasions of this sort. What a blessing it is to possess such
steadiness of nerve! I would not hesitate one moment to attack the
most ferocious grizzly in existence if I felt half as much confidence
in my ability to kill it. But the carriages are waiting; the horses
are prancing; the hunters are blowing their bugles; the royal party
are mounting on horseback or in their carriages, as best may suit
their taste, and the signal is given! A salute is fired by the Guard,
huzzas ring through the air, and the Czar of all the Russias is fairly
off on his hunt. Trees fly by; desert patches of ground whirl from
under; versts are as nothing to these spirited steeds and their
spirited masters, and in an hour or so the grand scene of action is
reached. Here couriers stand ready to conduct the imperial hunters
into the very jaws of death. The noble proprietor himself, bareheaded,
greets the royal pageant; the serfs bow down in Oriental fashion; the
dashing young Czar touches his hunting-cap in military style and waves
his hand gallantly to the ladies of the household, who are peeping at
him from their carriages in the distance. Once more the bugle is
sounded, and away they dash--knights, nobles, and all--the handsome
and gallant Czar leading the way by several lengths. Soon the terrific
cry is heard--"Halt! the bear! the bear! Halt!" Shut your eyes,
reader, for you never can stand such a sight as that--a full-grown
black bear, not two hundred yards off, in the middle of an open space,
surrounded by five hundred men hidden behind trees and driving him
back from every point where he attempts to escape. You don't see the
men, but you hear them shouting and banging upon their pots, pans, and
kettles. Now just open one eye and see the emperor dismount from his
famous charger, and deliver the rein to a dozen domestics,
deliberately cock his rifle, and fearlessly get behind the nearest
tree within the range of the bear. By this time you perceive that
Bruin is dancing a _pas seul_ on his hind legs, utterly confounded
with the noises around him. Shut your eyes again, for the emperor is
taking his royal aim, and will presently crack away with his royal
rifle. Hist! triggers are clicking around you in every direction, but
you needn't be the least afraid, for, although the bear is covered by
a reserve of forty rifles, not one of the hunters has nerve enough to
shoot unless officially authorized or personally desirous of visiting
the silver-mines of Siberia. Crack! thug! The smoke clears away. By
Jove! his imperial majesty has done it cleverly; hit the brute plumb
on the os frontis, or through the heart, it makes no difference which.
Down drops Bruin, kicking and tearing up the earth at a dreadful rate;
cheers rend the welkin; pots, pans, and kettles are banged. High above
all rises the stern voice of the autocrat, calling for another rifle,
which is immediately handed to him. Humanity requires that he should
at once put an end to the poor animal's sufferings, and he does it
with his accustomed skill.
Now the bear having kicked his last, an intrepid hunter charges up to
the spot on horseback, whirls around it two or three times, carefully
examines the body with an opera-glass, returns, and, approaching the
royal presence with uncovered head, delivers himself according to this
formula: "May it please your most gallant and imperial majesty, THE
BEAR IS DEAD!" The emperor sometimes responds, "Is he?" but usually
contents himself by waving his hand in an indifferent manner, puffing
his cigar, and calling for his horse. Sixteen grooms immediately rush
forward with his majesty's horse; and, being still young and vigorous,
he mounts without difficulty, unaided except by Master of Stirrups.
Next he draws an ivory-handled revolver--a present from Colt, of New
York--and, dashing fearlessly upon the bear, fires six shots into the
dead body; upon which he coolly dismounts, and pulling forth from the
breast of his hunting-coat an Arkansas bowie-knife--a present from the
poet Albert Pike, of Little Rock--plunges that dangerous weapon into
the bowels of the dead bear; then rising to his full height, with a
dark and stern countenance, he holds the blood-dripping blade high in
the air, so that all may see it, and utters one wild stentorian and
terrific shout, "Harasho! harasho!" signifying in English, "Good! very
well!" The cry is caught up by the princes and nobles, who, with
uncovered heads, now crowd around their gallant emperor, and waving
their hats, likewise shout "Harasho! harasho!"--"Good! very well!"
Then the five hundred peasants rush in with their tin pans, kettles,
and drums, and amid the most amazing din catch up the inspiring
strain, and deafen every ear with their wild shouts of "Harasho!
harasho!"--"Good! very well!" Upon which the emperor, rapidly
mounting, places a finger in each ear, and, still puffing his cigar,
rides triumphantly away.
The bear is hastily gutted and dressed with flowers. When all is ready
the royal party return to the railroad dépôt in a long procession,
headed by his majesty, and brought up in the rear by the dead body of
Bruin borne on poles by six-and-twenty powerful serfs. Refreshments in
the mean time have been administered to every body of high and low
degree, and by the time they reach the dépôt there are but two sober
individuals in the entire procession--his royal majesty and the bear.
Farther refreshments are administered all round during the journey
back to St. Petersburg, and, notwithstanding he is rigidly prohibited
by his physician from the use of stimulating beverages, it is supposed
that a reaction has now taken place, which renders necessary a
modification of the medical ukase. At all events, I am told the bear
is sometimes the only really steady member of the party by the time
the imperial pageant reaches the palace. When the usual ceremonies of
congratulation are over, a merry dance winds up the evening. After
this the company disperses to prayer and slumber, and thus ends the
great bear-hunt of his majesty the Autocrat of all the Russias.
CHAPTER XI.
RUSSIAN HUMOR.
The Russians have little or no humor, though they are not deficient in
a certain grotesque savagery bordering on the humorous. There is
something fearfully vicious in the royal freaks of fancy of which
Russian history furnishes us so many examples. We read with a shudder
of the facetious compliment paid to the Italian architect by Ivan the
Terrible, who caused the poor man's eyes to be put out that he might
never see to build another church so beautiful as that of St. Basil.
We can not but smile at the grim humor of Peter the Great, who, upon
seeing a crowd of men with wigs and gowns at Westminster Hall, and
being informed that they were lawyers, observed that he had but two in
his whole empire, and he believed he would hang one of them as soon as
he got home. A still more striking though less ghastly freak of fancy
was that perpetrated by the Empress Anne of Courland, who, on the
occasion of the marriage of her favorite buffoon, Galitzin, caused a
palace of ice to be built, with a bed of the same material, in which
she compelled the happy pair to pass their wedding night. The Empress
Catharine II., a Pomeranian by birth, but thoroughly Russian in her
morals, possessed a more ardent temperament. What time she did not
spend in gratifying her ambition by slaughtering men, she spent in
loving them:
"For, though she would widow all
Nations, she liked man as an individual."
She never dismissed an old admirer until she had secured several new
ones, and generally consoled those who had served her by a present of
twenty or thirty thousand serfs. On the death of Lanskoi, it is
recorded of her that "she gave herself up to the most poignant grief,
and remained three months without going out of her palace of Czarsko
Selo," thus perpetrating a very curious practical satire upon the
holiest of human affections. Her grenadier lover Potemkin, according
to the character given of him by the Count Ségur, was little better
than a gigantic and savage buffoon--licentious and superstitious, bold
and timid by turns--sometimes desiring to be King of Poland, at others
a bishop or a monk. Of him we read that "he put out an eye to free it
from a blemish which diminished his beauty. Banished by his rival, he
ran to meet death in battle, and returned with glory." Another
pleasant little jest was that perpetrated by Suwarrow, who, after the
bloody battle of Tourtourskaya, announced the result to his mistress
in an epigram of two doggerel lines. This was the terrible warrior who
used to sleep almost naked in a room of suffocating heat, and rush out
to review his troops in a linen jacket, with the thermometer of
Reaumur ten degrees below freezing point. Of the Emperor Paul, the son
of Catharine, we read that he issued a ukase against the use of
shoe-strings and round hats; caused all the watch-boxes, gates, and
bridges throughout the empire to be painted in the most glaring and
fantastic colors, and passed a considerable portion of his time riding
on a wooden rocking-horse--a degenerate practice for a scion of the
bold Catharine, who used to dress herself in men's clothes, and ride
a-straddle on the back of a live horse to review her troops. Alexander
I., in his ukase of September, 1827, perpetrated a very fine piece of
Russian humor. The period of military service for serfs is fixed at
twenty years in the Imperial Guard, and twenty-two in other branches
of the service. It is stated in express terms that the moment a serf
becomes enrolled in the ranks of the army he is free! But he must not
desert, for if he does he becomes a slave again. This idea of freedom
is really refreshing. Only twenty or twenty-two years of the gentle
restraints of Russian military discipline to be enjoyed after becoming
a free agent! Then he may go off (at the age of fifty or sixty, say),
unless disease or gunpowder has carried him off long before, to enjoy
the sweets of hard labor in some agreeable desert, or the position of
a watchman on the frontiers of Siberia, where the climate is probably
considered salubrious.
These may be considered royal or princely vagaries, in which great
people are privileged to indulge; but I think it will be found that
the same capricious savagery of humor--if I may so call it--prevails
to some extent among all classes of Russians. In some instances it can
scarcely be associated with any idea of mirthfulness, yet in the love
of strange, startling, and incongruous ideas there is something
bordering on the humorous. On Recollection Monday, for example, the
mass of the people go out into the grave-yards, and, spreading
table-cloths on the mounds that cover the dead bodies of their
relatives, drink quass and vodka to the health of the deceased,
saying, "Since the dead are unable to drink, the living must drink for
them!" Rather a grave excuse, one must think, for intoxication.
In the museum of Peter the Great at St. Petersburg stands the stuffed
skin of his favorite servant--a gigantic Holsteiner--one of the most
ghastly of all the grotesque and ghastly relics in that remarkable
institution. It is not a very agreeable subject for the pencil of an
artist, yet there is something so original in the idea of stuffing a
human being and putting him up for exhibition before the public that I
am constrained to introduce the following sketch of this strange
spectacle.
In one of the arsenals is an eagle made of gun-flints, with swords for
wings, daggers for feathers, and the mouths of cannons for eyes. A
painting of the Strelitzes, in another, represents heaven as
containing the Russian priests and all the faithful; while the other
place--a region of fire and brimstone--contains Jews, Tartars,
Germans, and negroes!
[Illustration: SKINNED AND STUFFED MAN.]
The winter markets of Moscow and St. Petersburg present some of the
most cadaverous specimens of the startling humor in which the Russians
delight. Here you find frozen oxen, calves, sheep, rabbits, geese,
ducks, and all manner of animals and birds, once animate with life,
now stiff and stark in death. The oxen stand staring at you with their
fixed eyes and gory carcasses; the calves are jumping or frisking in
skinless innocence; the sheep ba-a at you with open mouths, or cast
sheep's-eyes at the by-passers; the rabbits, having traveled hundreds
of miles, are jumping, or running, or turning somersaults in frozen
tableaux to keep themselves warm, and so on with every variety of
flesh, fowl, and even fish. The butchers cut short these expressive
practical witticisms by means of saws, as one might saw a block of
wood; and the saw-dust, which is really frozen flesh and blood in a
powdered state, is gathered up in baskets and carried away by the
children and ragamuffins to be made into soup.
[Illustration: FROZEN ANIMALS IN THE MARKET.]
I can conceive of nothing humorous in these people which is not
associated in some way with the cruel and the grotesque. They have
many noble and generous traits, but lack delicacy of feeling. Where
the range of the thermometer is from a hundred to a hundred and fifty
degrees of Fahrenheit, their character must partake in some sort of
the qualities of the climate--fierce, rigorous, and pitiless in its
wintry aspect, and without the compensating and genial tenderness of
spring; fitful and passionate as the scorching heats of summer, and
dark, stormy, and dreary as the desolation of autumn.
I could not but marvel, as I sat in some of the common traktirs, at
the extraordinary affection manifested by the Russians for cats. It
appeared to me that the proprietors must keep a feline corps expressly
for the amusement of their customers. At one of these places I saw at
least forty cats, of various breeds, from the confines of Tartary to
the city of Paris. They were up on the tables, on the benches, on the
floor, under the benches, on the backs of the tea-drinkers, in their
laps, in their arms--every where. I strongly suspected that they
answered the purpose of waiters, and that the owner relied upon them
to keep the plates clean. Possibly, too, they were made available as
musicians. I have a notion the Russians entertain the same
superstitious devotion to cats that the Banyans of India do to cows,
and the French and Germans to nasty little poodles. To see a great
shaggy boor, his face dripping with grease, his eyes swimming in
vodka, sit all doubled up, fondling and caressing these feline pets;
holding them in his hands; pressing their velvety fur to his eyes,
cheeks, even his lips; listening with delight to their screams and
squalls, is indeed a curious spectacle.
[Illustration: MUJIK AND CATS.]
Now I have no unchristian feeling toward any of the brute creation,
but I don't affect cats. Nor can I say that I greatly enjoy their
music. I heard the very best bands of tom-cats every night during my
sojourn in Moscow, and consider them utterly deficient in style and
execution. It belongs, I think, to the Music of Futurity, so much
discussed by the critics of Europe during the past few years--a
peculiar school of anti-melody that requires people yet to be born to
appreciate it thoroughly. The discords may be very fine, and the
passion very striking and tempestuous, but it is worse than thrown
away on an uncultivated ear like mine.
CHAPTER XII.
A MYSTERIOUS ADVENTURE.
The police of Moscow are not an attractive class of men, considering
them in the light of guardians of the law. With a good deal of
pomposity and laziness, they mingle much filth and rascality. The
emperor may have great confidence in them, based upon some knowledge
of their talents and virtues not shared by casual tourists; but if he
would trust one of them with ten kopeks, or agree to place the life of
any intimate personal friend in their keeping, in any of the dark
alleys of Moscow, his faith in their integrity and humanity must be
greater than mine. Indeed, upon casting around me in search of a
parallel, I am not quite sure that I ever saw such a scurvy set of
vagabonds employed to preserve the public peace in any other country,
except, perhaps, in Spain. The guardians of the law in Cadiz and
Seville are dark and forbidding enough in all conscience, and
unscrupulous enough to turn a penny in any way not requiring the
exercise of personal energy; and the police of Barcelona are not
inferior in all that constitutes moral turpitude, but they can not
surpass the Moscovites in filthiness of person or any of the essential
attributes of villainy.
I have it upon good authority that they are the very worst set of
thieves in the place, and that they will not hesitate to unite with
any midnight prowler for the purpose of robbing a stranger. True, they
did not rob me, but the reason of that is obvious. I gave them to
understand at the start that I was connected with the press. You
seldom hear of a writer for newspapers being robbed; and if such a
thing ever does happen, the amount taken is never large.
As a consequence of this proclivity for ill-gotten gains on the part
of the guardians of the law, it is unsafe for a stranger to go through
the less frequented streets of Moscow at night. Should he chance to be
stopped by two or three footpads and call for help, he will doubtless
wake up some drowsy guardian of the law, but the help will be all
against him. Instances have been related to me of robberies in which
the police were the most active assailants, the robbers merely
standing by for their share of the plunder. Should the unfortunate
victim knock down a footpad or two in self-defense, it is good ground
for an arrest, and both robbers and policemen become witnesses against
him. A man had better get involved in a question of title to his
property before the courts of California than be arrested for assault
and battery, and carried before any of the civil tribunals in Russia.
There is no end of the law's delays in these institutions, and his
only chance of justice is to get his case before the emperor, who is
practically the Supreme Court of the empire. Otherwise the really
aggrieved party must pay a fine for defending himself, and support the
assaulted man, whose nose he may have battered, during an unlimited
period at the hospital, together with physician's fees for all the
real or imaginary injuries inflicted. I met with a young American who
was followed by a stalwart ruffian one night in returning from one of
the public gardens. The man dogged his footsteps for some time. At
length, there being nobody near to render aid, the robber mustered
courage enough to seize hold and attempt to intimidate his supposed
victim by brandishing a knife. He came from a country where they were
not uncommon, and, besides, was an adept on the shoulder. With a
sudden jerk he freed himself, and, hauling off a little, gave his
assailant a note of hand that knocked him down. I am not versed in the
classics of the ring, or I would make something out of this fight. The
pad dropped like a stricken ox, his knife flying picturesquely through
the silvery rays of the moon. Next moment he was on his feet again,
the claret shining beautifully on his cheeks and beard. Throwing out
his claws like a huge grizzly, he rushed in, gnashing his teeth and
swearing horribly. This time our friend was fairly aroused, and the
wretch promptly measured his length on the ground. Thinking he had
scattered it on rather heavy, the American stooped down to see how
matters stood, when the fellow grasped him by the coat and commenced
shouting with all his might for the police--"Help! help! murder!
murder!" There was no remedy but to silence him, which our friend
dexterously accomplished by a blow on the os frontis. Hearing the
approaching footsteps of the police, he then concluded it was best to
make his escape, and accordingly took to his heels. Chase was given,
but he was as good at running as he was at the noble art of
self-defense, and soon distanced his pursuers. Fortunately, he reached
his quarters without being recognised. This was all that saved him
from arrest and imprisonment, or the payment of a fine for the
assault.
A common practice, as I was informed, is to arrest a stranger for some
alleged breach of the law, such as smoking a cigar in the streets, or
using disrespectful language toward the constituted authorities. Not
being accustomed to the intricacies of a Russian judiciary, it is
difficult, when once the matter comes before a tribunal of justice,
for a foreigner to rebut the testimony brought against him; and if he
be in a hurry to get away, his only course is to bribe the parties
interested in his detention. It would be unjust to say that this
system prevails universally throughout Russia. There is a small
circle around the imperial presence said to be exempt from corruption;
and there may possibly be a few dignitaries of the government, in
remote parts of the empire, who will not tell an untruth unless in
their official correspondence, or steal except to make up what they
consider due to them for public services; but the circle of immaculate
ones is very small, and commences very near the Czar, and the other
exceptions referred to are exceedingly rare. Thieving may be said to
begin within gunshot of the capital, and to attain its culminating
excellences on the confines of Tartary. The difference is only in
degree between the higher and the lower grades of officers. Hence,
although it is quite possible to obtain full reparation for an injury
before the Czar, through the intervention of a consul or a minister,
it is a vexatious and expensive mode of proceeding, and would only
result at last in the transportation of some miserable wretch to the
mines of Siberia. Of course no man with a spark of feeling would like
to see a poor fellow-creature go there. For my part, I would rather
suffer any amount of injustice than be the cause of sending a
fellow-mortal on so long and dreary a journey.
The whole bearing of which you will presently discover. I am going to
tell you a very singular adventure that befell me in Moscow. Do not be
impatient; it will all come in due time. A few dashes of preliminary
description will be necessary, by way of introduction, otherwise it
would be impossible to comprehend the full scope and purpose of my
narrative. If you be of the rougher mould, cherished reader, just cast
yourself back somewhere at your ease, take this most excellently
printed book deftly between your fingers, with a good cigar between
your teeth; throw your legs over your desk, a gunny-bag, a fence-rail,
or the mantel-piece of the bar-room, as the case may be; give me the
benefit of your friendship and confidence, and read away at your
leisure. But if you be one of those gentle beings placed upon earth to
diffuse joy and happiness over the desert of life, I pray you
consider me a serf at your imperial foot-stool; bend on me those
tender eyes; and with the mingled respect and admiration due by all
men to female loveliness, I shall proceed at once to tell you
(confidentially of course)
A MYSTERIOUS ADVENTURE
It so happened in Moscow that I fell in with a very pleasant and
sociable party of Americans, several of whom were in the railway
service, and therefore might reasonably be regarded as fast young
gentlemen, though far be it from me to imply any thing injurious to
their reputation. Beyond an excessive passion for tea, acquired by
long residence in Moscow, I do not know that a single one of them was
at all dissipated. When I first called at the rooms of these lively
countrymen, they immediately got out their tea-urns, and assured me
that it would be impossible to comprehend any thing of Russian life
till I had partaken freely of Russian tea, therefore I was obliged to
drink five or six glasses by way of a beginning. Having freely
discussed the affairs of the American nation at one room, we adjourned
to another, where we had a fresh supply of tea; and then, after
settling the rebellion to our common satisfaction, adjourned to
another, and so on throughout the best part of the day. Sometimes we
stopped in at a _traktir_ and had a portion or two, dashed with a
little Cognac, which my friends assured me would prevent it from
having any injurious effect upon the nervous system. In this way,
within a period of twelve hours, owing to the kindness and hospitality
of these agreeable Americans, who insisted upon treating me to tea, in
public and in private, at every turn of our rambles, I must have
swallowed a gallon or two of this delicious beverage. The weather was
exceedingly warm, but these experienced gentlemen insisted upon it
that Russian tea was a sovereign antidote for warm weather, especially
when dashed with Cognac, as it drove all the caloric out of the body
through the pores of the skin. "Don't be afraid!" said they,
encouragingly; "drink just as much as you please--it will cool you!
See how the Russians drink it. Nothing else enables them to stand
these fiery hot summers after their polar winters!" Well, I didn't
feel exactly cool, with thirty or forty tumblers of boiling hot tea,
dashed with Cognac, in my veins, but what was the use of
remonstrating? They _lived_ in Moscow--they _knew_ better than I did
what was good for strangers--so I kept on swallowing a little more,
just to oblige them, till I verily believe, had any body stuck a pin
in me, or had I undertaken to make a speech, I would have spouted
Russian tea.
Why is it that the moment any body wants to render you a service, or
manifest some token of friendship, he commences by striking at the
very root of your digestive functions? Is it not exacting a little too
much of human nature to require a man to consider himself a large
sponge, in order that hospitality may be poured into him by the
gallon? When a person of pliant and amiable disposition visits a set
of good fellows, and they take some trouble to entertain him; when
they think they are delighting him internally and externally--not to
say infernally--with such tea as he never drank before, it is hard to
refuse. The moral courage necessary for the peremptory rejection of
such advances would make a hero. Thus it has ever been with me--I am
the victim of misplaced hospitality. It has been the besetting trouble
of my life. I remember once eating a Nantucket pudding to oblige a
lady. It was made of corn-meal and molasses, with some diabolical
compound in the way of sauce--possibly whale-oil and tar. I had just
eaten a hearty dinner; but the lady insisted upon it that the pudding
was a great dish in Nantucket, and I must try it. Well, I stuffed and
gagged at it, out of pure politeness, till every morsel on the plate
was gone, declaring all the time that it was perfectly delicious. The
lady was charmed, and, in the face of every denial, instantly filled
the plate again. What could I do but eat it? And after eating till I
verily believe one half of me was composed of Nantucket pudding, and
the other half of whale-oil and tar, what could I do but praise it
again? The third attempt upon my life was made by this most excellent
and hospitable lady; but I gave way, and had to beg off. Human nature
could stand it no longer. The consequence was, I wounded her feelings.
She regretted very much that I disliked Nantucket pudding, and I don't
think ever quite forgave me for my prejudice against that article of
diet, though her kindness laid me up sick for two weeks. Nor is this
an isolated case. I might relate a thousand others in illustration of
the melancholy fact that hospitality has been the bane of my life.
When I think of all the sufferings I have endured out of mere
politeness--though by no means accounted a polite person--tears of
grief and indignation spring to my eyes. Old John Rogers at the stake
never suffered such martyrdom. But there is an end of it! The _tchai_
of Moscow finished all this sort of thing--so far, at least, as the
male sex is concerned. I would still eat a coyote or a weasel to
oblige a lady, but as to drinking two gallons of strong tea per day,
dashed with Cognac to reduce its temperature, to oblige any man that
ever wore a beard, I solemnly declare I'll die first. The thing is an
imposition--an outrage. Every man has a right to my time, my purse, my
real estate in Oakland, my coat, my boots, or my razor--nay, in a case
of emergency, my tooth-brush--but no man has a right to deluge my
diaphragm with slops, or make a ditch of Mundus of my stomach.
[Illustration: EFFECTS OF "LITTLE WATER."]
At the Peterskoi Gardens we had a little more tea, dashed with
_vodka_, to keep out the night air. As soon as the fire-works were
over we adjourned to the pavilion, and refreshed ourselves with a
little more tea slightly impregnated with some more _vodka_. Now I
don't know exactly what this vodka is made of, but I believe it is an
extract of corn. In the Russian language _voda_ is water, and _vodka_
means "little water." There certainly was very little in what we got,
or the tea must have been stronger than usual, for, notwithstanding
these agreeable young gentlemen protested a gallon of such stuff would
not produce the slightest effect, it seemed to me--though there might
have been some delusion in the idea, arising from ignorance of Russian
customs--that my head went round like a whirligig; and by the time I
took my leave of these experienced young friends and retired to my
room at the _Hotel de Venise_, it did likewise occur to me--though
that too may have been a mere notion--that there was a hive of bees in
each ear. Upon due consideration of all the facts, I thought it best
to turn in, and resume any inquiries that might be necessary for the
elucidation of these phenomena in the morning.
[Here, you perceive, I am gradually verging toward the adventure. The
heroine of the romance has not yet made her appearance, but depend
upon it she is getting ready. You should never hurry the female
characters; besides, it is not proper, even if this were all fiction
instead of sober truth, that the heroine should be brought upon the
stage just as the hero is tumbling into bed.]
But to proceed. Sleep was effectually banished from my eyes, and no
wonder. Who in the name of sense could sleep with forty tumblers of
Russian tea--to say nothing of the dashes that were put in
it--simmering through every nook and cranny of his body, and boiling
over in his head? There I lay, twisting and tumbling, the pillow
continually descending into the depths of infinity, but never getting
any where--the bed rolling like a dismantled hulk upon a stormy
sea--the room filled with steaming and hissing urns--a fearful thirst
parching my throat, while myriads of horrid bearded Russians were
torturing me with tumblers of boiling-hot tea dashed with
_vodka_--thus I lay a perfect victim of tea. I could even see Chinamen
with long queues picking tea-leaves off endless varieties of shrubs
that grew upon the papered walls; and Kalmuck Tartars, with their long
caravans, traversing the dreary steppes of Tartary laden with
inexhaustible burdens of the precious leaf; and the great fair of
Nijni Novgorod, with its booths, and tents, and countless boxes of
tea, and busy throngs of traders and tea-merchants, all passing like a
panorama before me, and all growing naturally out of an indefinite
background of tea.
I can not distinctly remember how long I tossed about in this way,
beset by all sorts of vagaries. Sometimes I fancied sleep had come,
and that the whole matter was a ridiculous freak of fancy, including
my visit to Moscow--that Russian tea was all a fiction, and _vodka_ a
mere nightmare; but with a nervous start I would find myself awake,
the palpable reality of my extraordinary condition staring me in the
face. Unable to endure such an anomalous frame of mind and body any
longer, I at length resolved to go down and take an airing in the
streets, believing, if any thing would have a beneficial effect, it
would be the fresh air. Acting upon this idea, I hastily dressed
myself and descended to the front door. The _Hotel de Venise_ is
situated in a central part of the city, at no great distance from the
Kremlin. It stands back in a large open yard, with a very pretty
garden to the right as you enter from the main street. The proprietor
is a Russian, but the hotel is conducted in the French style, and,
although not more conspicuous for cleanliness than other
establishments of the same class in Moscow, it is nevertheless
tolerably free from vermin. The fleas in it were certainly neither so
lively nor so entertaining as I have found them at many of the Spanish
ranches in California, and the bugs, I am sure, are nothing like so
corpulent as some I have seen in Washington City. I throw this in
gratis, as a sort of puff, in consideration of an understanding with
the landlord, that if he would refrain from cheating me I would
recommend his hotel to American travelers. It is very good of its
kind, and no person fond of veal, as a standard dish, can suffer from
hunger at this establishment so long as calves continue to be born any
where in the neighborhood of Moscow.
The porter, a drowsy old fellow in livery, whose only business, so far
as I could discover, was to bow to the guests as they passed in and
out during the day, at the expense of a kopek to each one of them for
every bow, napping on a lounge close by the front door. Hearing my
footsteps, he awoke, rubbed his eyes, bowed habitually, and then
stared at me with a vacant and somewhat startled expression. It was
not a common thing evidently for lodgers to go out of the hotel at
that time of night, or rather morning--it must have been nearly two
o'clock--for, after gazing a while at what he doubtless took to be an
apparition or an absconding boarder whose bill had not been settled,
he grumbled out something like a dissent, and stood between me and the
door. A small fee of ten kopeks, which I placed in his hand, aided him
in grasping at the mysteries of the case, and he unlocked the door and
let me out, merely shaking his head gravely, as if he divined my
purpose, but did not altogether approve of it in one of my age and
sedate appearance. In that, however, he was mistaken: I had no
disposition to form any tender alliances in Moscow.
[Illustration: RUSSIAN BEGGARS.]
The streets were almost deserted. An occasional drosky, carrying home
some belated pleasure-seeker, was all that disturbed the silence. I
walked some distance in the direction of the Kremlin. The air was
deliciously cool and refreshing, and the sky wore a still richer glow
than I had noticed a few hours before at the gardens of the Peterskoi.
The moon had not yet gone down, but the first glowing blushes of the
early morning were stealing over the heavens, mingled with its silvery
light. I took off my hat to enjoy the fresh air, and wandered along
quite enchanted with the richness and variety of the scene. Every turn
of the silent streets brought me in view of some gilded pile of
cupolas, standing in glowing relief against the sky. Churches of
strange Asiatic form, the domes richly and fancifully colored; golden
stars glittering upon a groundwork of blue, green, or yellow; shrines
with burning tapers over the massive doors and gateways, were
scattered in every direction in the most beautiful profusion.
Sometimes I saw a solitary beggar kneeling devoutly before some gilded
saint, and mourning over the weariness of life. Once I was startled
by the apparition of a poor wretch lying asleep--I thought he was
dead--a crippled wreck upon the stone steps--his eyes closed in brief
oblivion of the world and its sorrows, his furrowed and pallid
features a ghastly commentary upon the glittering temples and idols
that surround him. For above all these things that are "decked with
silver and with gold, and fastened with nails and with hammers that
they move not," there is One who hath "made the earth by His power and
established the world by His wisdom;" man is but brutish in his
knowledge; "every founder is confounded by the graven image; for his
molten image is falsehood, and there is no breath in them." Such
extremes every where abound in Moscow--magnificence and filth; wealth
and poverty; a superstitious belief in the power of images in the
midst of abject proofs of their impotence. And yet, is it not better
that men should believe in something rather than in nothing? The
glittering idol can not touch the crippled beggar and put health and
strength in his limbs, but if the poor sufferer can sleep better upon
the cold stones in the presence of his patron saint than elsewhere, in
charity's name let him,
"O'erlabored with his being's strife
Shrink to that sweet forgetfulness of life."
I wandered on. Soon the cupolas of the mighty Kremlin were in sight,
all aglow with the bright sheen of the morn. Passing along its
embattled walls, which now seemed of snowy whiteness, I reached the
grand plaza of the Krasnoi Ploschod. Standing out in the open space, I
gazed at the wondrous pile of gold-covered domes till my eyes rested
on the highest point--the majestic tower of Ivan Veliki. And then I
could but think of the terrible Czar--the fourth of the fierce race of
Ivans, who ruled the destinies of Russia; he who killed his own son in
a fit of rage, yet never shook hands with a foreign embassador without
washing his own immediately after; the patron of monasteries, and the
conqueror of Kazan, Astrakan, and Siberia. This was the most cruel yet
most enlightened of his name. I am not sure whether the tower was
built to commemorate his fame or that of his grandfather, Ivan the
Third, also called "the Terrible," of whom Karasmin says that, "when
excited with anger, his glance would make a timid woman swoon; that
petitioners dreaded to approach his throne, and that even at his table
the boyars, his grandees, trembled before him." A terrible fellow, no
doubt, and thoroughly Russian by the testimony of this Russian
historian, for where else will you find men so terrible as to make
timid women swoon by a single glance of their eye? Not in California,
surely! If I were a Czar this soft summer night (such was the idea
that naturally occurred to me), I would gaze upon the fair flowers of
creation with an entirely different expression of countenance. They
should neither wilt nor swoon unless overcome by the delicacy and
tenderness of my admiration.
From the green towers of the Holy Gate, where neither Czar nor serf
can enter without uncovering his head, I turned toward the Vassoli
Blagennoi--the wondrous maze of churches that gathers around the
Cathedral of St. Basil. Not in all Moscow is there a sight so strange
and gorgeous as this. The globular domes, all striped with the varied
colors of the rainbow; the glittering gold-gilt cupolas; the rare and
fanciful minarets; the shrines, and crosses, and stars; the massive
steps; the iron railing, with shining gold-capped points--surely, in
the combination of striking and picturesque forms and colors, lights
and shades, must ever remain unequaled. The comparison may seem
frivolous, yet it resembled more, to my eye, some gigantic cactus of
the tropics, with its needles and rich colors, its round, prickly
domes and fantastic cupolas, than any thing I had ever seen before in
the shape of a church or group of churches. While I gazed in wonder at
the strange fabric, I could not but think again of Ivan the Terrible;
by whose order it was built; and how, when the architect (an Italian)
was brought before him, trembling with awe, the mighty Ivan expressed
his approval of the performance, and demanded if he, the architect,
could build another equally strange and beautiful; to which the poor
Italian, elated with joy, answered that he could build another even
stranger and more beautiful than this; and then how the ferocious and
unprincipled Czar had the poor fellow's eyes put out to prevent him
from building another.
But this is not the adventure. I have nothing to do at present with
the Church of St. Basil or Ivan the Terrible except in so far as they
affected my imagination. The business on hand is to tell you how the
dire catastrophe happened.
Bewildered at length with gazing at all these wonderful sights, I
turned to retrace my steps to the hotel. A few droskies were still
plying on the principal thoroughfares, and now and then I met gay
parties trudging homeward after their night's dissipation; but I soon
struck into the less frequented streets, where a dreary silence
reigned. There was something very sad and solitary in the
reverberation of my footsteps. For the first time it occurred to me
that there was not much security here for life, in case of a covert
attack from some of those footpads said to infest the city. I began to
reflect upon the experience of my young American friend, and regret
that it had not occurred to me before I left the hotel. You may think
this very weak and foolish, good friends, surrounded as you are by all
the safeguards of law and order, and living in a country where men are
never knocked on the head of nights--with occasional exceptions; but I
can assure you it is a very natural feeling in a strange,
half-barbarous city like Moscow, where one doesn't understand the
language. Had I been well versed in Russian, the probability is I
should not have felt the least alarmed; but a man experiences a
terrible sensation of loneliness when he expects every moment to be
knocked on the head without being able to say a word in his own
defense. Had my guide, Dominico, been with me, I should not have felt
quite so helpless--though I never had much confidence in his
courage--for he could at least have demanded an explanation, or, if
the worst came to the worst, helped me to run away. The fact is--and
there is no use attempting to disguise it--I began to feel a nervous
apprehension that something was going to happen. I was startled at my
own shadow, and was even afraid to whistle with any view of keeping up
my spirits, lest something unusually florid in my style of whistling
might lead to the supposition that I was from California, and
therefore a good subject for robbery.
Which, by the way, puts me in mind of a remarkable fact, well worth
mentioning. The State of California owes me, at the least calculation,
two hundred dollars, paid in sums varying from six kreutzers up to a
pound sterling to hotel-keepers, porters, lackeys, and professional
gentlemen throughout Europe, exclusively on the ground of my
citizenship in that state. In Paris--in Spain--in Africa--in Germany
(with the exceptions of the beer-houses and country inns), I had to
pay a heavy percentage upon the capital invested in my gold mines
solely on the presumption that no man could come from so rich a
country without carrying off a good deal of treasure on his person,
like the carcass that carried the diamonds out of the rich valley for
Sinbad the Sailor. Yet I never could forego the pleasure of announcing
myself as an embassador to foreign parts from that noble state,
commissioned by the sovereigns generally to furnish them with the
latest improvements in morals, fashions, and manners for the public
benefit--an extremely onerous and responsible duty, which I have
executed, and shall continue to execute, with the most rigid fidelity.
After walking quite far enough to have reached the hotel, I became
confused at the winding of the streets. The neighborhood was strange.
I could not discover any familiar sign or object. The houses were low,
mean, and dark looking; the street was narrow and roughly paved. I
walked a little farther, then turned into another street still more
obscure, and, following that for some distance, brought up amid a pile
of ruined walls. There could no longer be a doubt that I had missed
the way, and was not likely to find it in this direction. It was a
very suspicious quarter into which I had strayed. Every thing about it
betokened poverty and crime. I began to feel rather uneasy, but it
would not do to stand here among the ruins as a mark for any midnight
prowler who might be lurking around. Turning off in a new direction, I
took a by-street, which appeared to lead to an open space. As I picked
my way over the masses of rubbish, a dark figure crossed in front, and
disappeared in the shadow of a wall. I was entirely unarmed. What was
to be done? Perhaps the man might be able to tell me the way to my
lodgings; but I could not speak a word of Russian, as before stated,
and, besides, was rather averse to making acquaintance with strangers.
After a moment's reflection, I walked on, cautiously and distrustfully
enough, for the notion was uppermost in my mind that this fellow was
not there for any good purpose. As I passed the spot where he had
disappeared, I looked suspiciously around, but he did not make his
appearance. With a few hasty strides I readied the open space--a
vacant lot, it seemed, caused by a recent fire. The houses were burnt
down, and nothing but a blackened mass of beams, rafters, and ashes
covered the ground. The only exit was through a narrow alley. Before
entering this, I looked back and saw the same figure stealthily
following me. On I went as rapidly as I could walk. Closer and closer
came the figure. He was a man of gigantic stature, and was probably
armed. Soon I heard the heavy tramp of his feet within a few paces. It
was evident I must either run or stand my ground. Perhaps, if I had
known what direction to take, or could have placed more reliance upon
my knees, which were greatly weakened by tea, I might have chosen the
former alternative, inglorious as it may seem; but, under the
circumstances, I resolved to stand. Facing around suddenly, with my
back to the wall, I called to the ruffian to stand off, as he valued
his life. He halted within a few feet, evidently a little disconcerted
at my sudden determination to make battle. His face was the most
brutal I had over seen; a filthy mass of beard nearly covered it; two
piercing white eyes glistened beneath the leaf of his greasy cap; a
coarse blouse, gathered around the waist by a leather belt, and boots
that reached nearly to his hips, were the most striking articles of
his costume. For a moment he gazed at me, as if uncertain what to do;
then brushed slowly past, with the design, no doubt, of ascertaining
if I was armed. I could not see whether he carried any deadly weapons
himself; but a man of his gigantic stature needed none to be a very
unequal opponent in a struggle with one whose most sanguinary
conflicts had hitherto been on paper, and who had never wielded a
heavier weapon than a pen.
Proceeding on his way, however, the ruffian, after going about a
hundred yards, disappeared in some dark recess in among the houses on
one side. I continued on, taking care to keep in the middle of the
alley. As I approached the spot where the man had disappeared, I heard
several voices, and then the terrible truth flashed upon me that there
must be a gang of them. I now saw no alternative but to turn back and
run for my life. It was an inglorious thing to do, no doubt, but which
of you, my friends, would not have done the same thing?
[Illustration: GAMBLING SALOON.]
Scarcely had I started under full headway when three or four men
rushed out in pursuit. I will not attempt to disguise the fact that
the ground passed under my feet pretty rapidly; and the probability
is, the hostile party would have been distanced in less than ten
minutes but for an unfortunate accident. It was necessary to cross the
ruins already described. Here, in the recklessness of my flight, I
stumbled over a beam, and fell prostrate in a pile of ashes. Before I
could regain my feet the ruffians were upon me. While two of them held
my arms, the third clapped his dirty hand over my mouth, and in this
way they dragged me back into the alley. As soon as they had reached
the dark archway from which they had originally started, they knocked
at a door on one side. This was quickly opened, and I was thrust into
a large room, dimly lighted with rude lamps of grease hung upon the
walls. When they first got hold of me, I confess the sensation was not
pleasant. What would the Emperor Alexander say when he heard that a
citizen of California had been murdered in this cold-blooded manner?
My next thought was, in what terms would this sad affair be noticed in
the columns of the Sacramento _Union_? Would it not be regarded by the
editor as an unprovoked disaster inflicted upon society? My fears,
however, were somewhat dispelled upon looking around the saloon into
which I had been so strangely introduced. Several tables were ranged
along the walls, at each of which sat a group of the most
horrible-looking savages that probably ever were seen out of jail--the
very dregs and offscourings of Moscow. Their faces were mostly covered
with coarse, greasy beards, reaching half way down their bodies; some
wore dirty blue or gray blouses, tied around the waist with ropes, or
fastened with leather belts; others, long blue coats, reaching nearly
to their feet; and all, or nearly all, had caps on their heads, and
great heavy boots reaching up to their knees, in which their
pantaloons were thrust, giving them a rakish and ruffianly appearance.
A few sat in their shirt-sleeves; and, judging by the color of their
shirts, as well as their skins, did not reckon soap among the luxuries
of life. Several of these savage-looking Mujiks were smoking some
abominable weed, intended, perhaps, for tobacco, but very much unlike
that delightful narcotic in the foul and tainted odor which it
diffused over the room. They were all filthy and brutish in the
extreme, and talked in some wretched jargon, which, even to my
inexperienced ear, had but little of the gentle flow of the Russian in
it. The tables were dotted with dice, cards, fragments of black bread,
plates of grease, and cabbage soup, and glasses of vodka and tea; and
the business of gambling, eating, and drinking was carried on with
such earnestness that my entrance attracted no farther attention than
a rude stare from the nearest group. No wonder they were a little
puzzled, for I was covered with ashes, and must have presented rather
a singular appearance. The three ruffians who had brought me in closed
the door, and motioned me to a seat at a vacant table. They then
called for tea, vodka, and quass, together with a great dish of raw
cucumbers, which they set to work devouring with amazing voracity.
During a pause in the feast they held a low conversation with the man
who served them, who went out and presently returned with a small
tea-pot full of tea and a glass, which he set before me. They motioned
to me, in rather a friendly way, to drink. I was parched with thirst,
and was not sorry to get a draught of any thing--even the villainous
compound the traktir had set before me; so I drank off a tumblerfull
at once. Soon I began to experience a whirling sensation in the head.
A cold tremor ran through my limbs. Dim and confused visions of the
company rose before me, and a strange and spectral light seemed shed
over the room. The murmur of voices sounded like rushing waters in my
ears. I gradually lost all power of volition, while my consciousness
remained unimpaired, or, if any thing, became more acute than ever.
The guests, if such they were, broke up their carousal about this
time, and began to drop off one by one, each bowing profoundly to the
landlord, and crossing himself devoutly, and bowing three times again
before the shrine of the patron saint as he passed out. It was really
marvelous to see some of these ruffians, so besotted with strong drink
that they were scarcely able to see the way to the door, stagger up
before the burnished shrine, and, steadying themselves the best they
could, gravely and solemnly go through their devotions.
But I see you are beginning to yawn, and, notwithstanding the most
exciting part of the adventure is about to commence, it would be
extremely injudicious in me to force it upon you under circumstances
so disadvantageous to both parties. You will therefore oblige me by
finishing your nap, and, with your permission, we will proceed with
our narrative as soon as it may be mutually agreeable. In the mean
time, I beg you will regard what I have already told you as strictly
confidential. My reputation, both for veracity and general good
character, is involved in this very extraordinary affair, and it would
be unfair that either the one or the other should be prejudiced by a
partial exposition of the facts.
CHAPTER XIII.
THE DENOUEMENT.
I noticed that the traktir, in settling accounts with his customers,
made use of a peculiar instrument commonly seen in the shops and
market-places throughout the city. Behind a sort of bar or counter at
the head of the room he kept what is called a _schot_, upon which he
made his calculations. This is a frame about a foot square, across
which run numerous wires. On each wire is a string of colored pieces
of wood somewhat resembling billiard-counters, only smaller. The
merchant, trader, traktir, or craftsman engaged in pecuniary
transactions uses this instrument with wonderful dexterity in making
his calculations. He believes it to be the only thing in the world
that will not lie or steal. If you have purchased to the amount of
thirty kopeks, you would naturally conclude that out of a ruble (one
hundred kopeks) your change would amount to seventy. Not so the
sagacious and wary Russian. He takes nothing for granted in the way of
trade. Your calculations may be erroneous--figures obtained through
the medium of mental arithmetic may lie, but the schot never. The
experience of a lifetime goes for nothing. He must have proof
positive. Taking his schot between his knees, he counts off thirty
balls out of a hundred. Of course there is no mistake about that.
Neither you nor he can dispute it. Then he counts the remainder, and
finds that it amounts to seventy--therefore your change is seventy
kopeks! Do you dispute it? Then you can count for yourself. You might
cover pages with written calculations, or demonstrate the problem by
the four cardinal rules of arithmetic; you might express the numbers
by sticks, stones, beans, or grains of coffee, but it would be all
the same to this astute and cautious calculator--facts can only reach
his understanding through the colored balls of his beloved schot. I
don't think he would rely with certainty upon the loose verbal
statement that two and two make four without resorting to the schot
for a verification. But to proceed:
A few of the guests, too far gone with "little water" to get up and
perform their devotions, rolled over on the floor and went to sleep.
The lights grew dim. A gloomy silence began to settle over the room,
interrupted only by the occasional grunting or snoring of the
sleepers. The ruffians who sat at the table with me had been nodding
for some time; but, roused by the cessation of noises, they called to
the man of the house, and in a low voice gave him some orders. He got
a light and opened a small door in a recess at one side of the room. I
was then lifted up by the others and carried into an adjoining
passage, and thence up a narrow stairway. In a large dingy room
overhead I could see by the flickering rays of the lamp a bed in one
corner. It was not very clean--none of the Russian beds are--but they
laid me in it, nevertheless, for I could offer no remonstrance. What
they had hitherto done was bad enough, but this capped the climax of
outrages. Were the cowardly villains afraid to murder me, and was this
their plan of getting it done, and at the same time getting rid of the
body? Great heavens! was I to be devoured piecemeal by a rapacious
horde of the wild beasts that are said to infest the Russian beds! And
utterly helpless, too, without the power to grapple with as much as a
single flea--the least formidable, perhaps, of the entire gang! It was
absolutely fearful to contemplate such an act of premeditated
barbarity; yet what could I do, unable to speak a word or move a limb.
I am reminded by this that the Russians derive the most striking
features of their civilization from the French and Germans. Their
fashions, their tailors, their confectioners, their perfumeries, their
barbers, are nearly all French or Germans; but their baths are a
national institution, derived originally, perhaps, from the Orientals.
We hear a good deal of Russian baths, especially from enthusiastic
travelers, and are apt to suppose that where such a thorough system of
scrubbing and boiling prevails, the human cuticle must present a very
extraordinary aspect of cleanliness. Perhaps this is so in certain
cases, but it is not a national characteristic. A Russian bath, in the
genuine style, is rather a costly luxury. There are, to be sure, in
St. Petersburg and Moscow, public bath-houses for the rabble, where
the filthiest beggar can be boiled out and scrubbed for a few kopeks;
but people who wear a coating of dirt habitually must become attached
to it in the course of time, and hate very much to dispose of it at
any price. At least there seemed to be a prejudice of this kind in
Moscow, where the affection with which this sort of overlining is
preserved is quite equal to that with which the Germans adhere to
their old household furniture. It may be, perhaps, that the few summer
months which they enjoy are insufficient for the removal of all the
strange things that accumulate upon the body during the long winters.
The poorer classes seldom remove their furs or change their clothing
till warm weather and the natural wear and tear of all perishable
things cause them to drop off of their own accord. I have seen on a
scorching hot day men wrapped in long woolen coats, doubled over the
breast and securely fastened around the waist, and great boots,
capacious enough and thick enough for fire-buckets, in which they were
half buried, strolling lazily along in the sun, as if they absolutely
enjoyed its warmth; and yet these very articles of clothing, with but
little addition, must have borne the piercing winds of midwinter. A
suspicion crossed my mind that they were trying in this way to bag a
little heat for winter use, as the old burghers of Schilda bagged the
light to put in their town hall because they had no windows. These
strange habits must have something to do with the number of ferocious
little animals--I will not degrade their breed and variety by calling
them, vermin--which infest the rooms and beds. But the Russian skin is
like Russian leather--the best and toughest in the world. Something in
the climate is good for the production of thick and lasting cuticles.
It is doubtless a wise provision of nature, based upon the extremes of
heat and cold to which these people are exposed. There is no good
reason why animals with four feet should be more favored in this
respect than bipeds. I doubt if an ordinary Russian would suffer the
slightest inconvenience if a needle were run into the small of his
back. All those physical torments which disturb thin-skinned people
from other countries are no torments at all to him; and I incline to
the opinion that it is the constant experience he enjoys in a small
way that enables him to endure the wounds received in battle with such
wonderful stoicism. A man can carry a bull if he only commences when
the animal is young. Why not, on the same principle, accustom himself
to being stabbed every night till he can quietly endure to be run
through with a bayonet? The Russian soldiers possess wonderful powers
of passive endurance. Being stabbed or cut to pieces is second nature
to them--they have been accustomed to it, in a degree, from early
infancy. Who does not remember how they were hewed and hacked down in
the Crimean War, and yet came to life again by thousands after they
were given up for dead? Perhaps no other soldiers in the world possess
such stoicism under the inflictions of pain. They stand an enormous
amount of killing; more so, I think, than any other people, unless it
may be the Irish, who, at the battle of Vinegar Hill, in the rebellion
of '98, were nearly all cut to pieces and left for dead on the field,
but got up in a day or two after and went at it again as lively as
ever. This, however, was not owing to the same early experience, but
to the healthy blood made of potatoes, with a slight sprinkling of
Irish whisky. In fine, I don't think a genuine Muscovite could sleep
without a bountiful supply of vermin to titillate his skin any more
than a miller bereft of the customary noise of his hoppers.
Which brings me back again to the adventure. On that filthy bed the
ruffians laid me down to be devoured by the wild beasts by which it
was infested. Then they turned about to a shrine that stood in a
corner of the room, and each one bowed down before it three times and
crossed himself, after which they all left the room and quietly closed
the door behind them. I was penetrated with horror at the thought of
the terrible death before me, but not so much as to avoid noticing
that the chief furniture of the room consisted of a stove in one
corner, of cylindrical form, made of terra-cotta or burnt clay, and
glazed outside. It was colored in rather a fanciful way, like
queensware, and made a conspicuous appearance, reaching from the floor
to the ceiling. This was the genuine Russian stove, with which these
people no doubt kept themselves warm during the winter. The windows
are composed of double glasses, and between the sashes the space is
filled with sand to keep out the air, so that to be hermetically
sealed up is one of necessities of existence in this rigorous climate.
While I was pondering over the marvelous fact that people can live by
breathing so many thousand gallons of air over and over so many
thousand times, a whole legion of fleas, chinches, and other animals
of a still more forbidding aspect commenced their horrid work, and
would probably soon have made an end of me but for a new turn in this
most extraordinary affair. The door gently opened. A figure glided in
on tiptoe. It was that of a female, I knew by the grace and elegance
of her motions, even before I could see her face or trace the
undulating outline of her form in the dim light that pervaded the
room. My senses were acutely alive to every movement, yet I was
utterly unable to move, owing to the infernal drug with which they had
dosed me. The woman, or rather girl--for she could not have been over
eighteen or nineteen--cautiously approached the bed, with her finger
to her lips, as if warning me not to speak. She was very beautiful--I
was not insensible to that fact. Her features were wonderfully
aristocratic for one in her position, and there was something in the
expression of her dark, gleaming eyes peculiarly earnest and pathetic.
Her hair was tossed wildly and carelessly back over her shoulders--she
had evidently just risen from bed, for her costume consisted of
nothing more than a loose night-wrapper, which fell in graceful folds
around her limbs, revealing to great advantage the exquisite symmetry
of her form. I was certain she did not belong to the house.
Approaching timidly, yet with a certain air of determination, she bent
down and gazed a moment in my face, and then hurriedly whispered in
French, "Now is the time--let us escape! They lie sleeping by the
door. A servant whom I bribed has disclosed the fact of your capture
to me; I also am a prisoner in this horrid den. Will you save me? Oh,
will you fly with me?" Of course, being unable to move a muscle,
except those of my eyes, I could not open my mouth to utter a word in
reply. The unhappy young woman looked profoundly distressed that I
should thus gaze at her in silence. "Oh, what am I to do? Who will
save me?" she cried, wringing her hands in the deepest anguish: "I
have not a friend upon earth!" Then, clasping me by the hand, she
looked in my face appealingly, and said, "Monsieur, I know you are a
Frenchman. I see it in the chivalrous lines of your countenance. Ah!
have pity on a friendless young girl, and do not gaze at her with such
chilling indifference. I also am French. These wretches have waylaid
and imprisoned me, and they hope to obtain a ransom by my detention.
My friends are ignorant of my miserable fate. What can I do, monsieur,
unless you assist me?"
Utterly helpless--drugged--yet perfectly conscious of all the lovely
creature was saying, I was truly in a most deplorable situation. Again
and again she begged me, if there was a spark of French chivalry left
in my nature, not to respond to her appeals by such a look of
unutterable disdain. She was thrillingly beautiful; and beauty in
tears is enough to melt the hardest heart that ever was put in the
breast of man. I could feel her balmy breath upon my face, and the
warmth of her delicate hand in mine, as she struggled to arouse me;
and I declare it is my honest conviction that, had I been simply a
corpse, life would have come back to my assistance; but this
diabolical drug possessed some extraordinary power against which not
even the fascinations of beauty could successfully contend. Under
other circumstances, indeed, there is no telling--but why talk of
other circumstances? There I lay like a log, completely paralyzed from
head to foot. At length, unable to elicit an answer, a flush of
mingled indignation and scorn illuminated her beautiful features, and,
drawing herself back with a haughty air, she said, "If this be the
boasted chivalry of my countrymen, then the sooner it meets with a
merited reward the better. Allow me to say, monsieur, that while I
admire your prudence, I scorn the spirit that prompts it!" and, with a
glance of fierce disdain, she swept with queenly strides out of the
room. A moment after I heard some voices in the passage, and scarcely
five minutes had elapsed before the door was opened again. To my
horror I saw the ruffian who had first followed me enter stealthily
with a darkened lantern, and approach toward my bed. He carried in his
right hand a heavy bar of iron. Stopping a moment opposite a shrine on
one side of the room, he laid down his lamp and bar, and, bowing down
three times, crossed himself devoutly, and then proceeded to
accomplish his fiendish work. No conception can be formed of the agony
with which I now regarded my fate. Crouching low as he approached, the
wretch soon reached my bedside, peered a moment into my face with his
hideous white eyes, laid down the lamp, then grasped the bar of iron
firmly in both hands, and raised himself up to his full height. I made
a desperate effort to cry out for help. My voice was utterly gone. I
could not even move my lips. But why prolong the dreadful scene? One
more glance with the fierce white eyes, a deep grating malediction,
and the ruffian braced himself for his deadly job. He tightened his
grip upon the bar, swung it high over his head, and with one fell
blow--DASHED MY BRAINS OUT!!
* * * * *
Don't believe it, eh?
Well, sir, you would insist upon my telling you the adventure, and now
I stand by it! If it be your deliberate opinion that my statement is
not to be relied upon, nothing remains between us but to arrange the
preliminaries. I have no disposition to deprive my publishers of a
valuable contributor, or society of an ornament; but, sir, the great
principles of truth must be maintained. As it will not be convenient
for me to attend to this matter in person, you will be pleased to
select any friend of mine in California who may desire to stand up for
my honor; place him before you at the usual distance of ten paces;
then name any friend of yours at present in Europe as a similar
substitute for yourself--the principals only to use pistols--notify me
by the Icelandic telegraph when you are ready, and then, upon return
of signal, pop away at my friend. But, since it is not my wish to
proceed to such an extremity unnecessarily, if you will admit that I
may possibly have been deceived--that there may have been some
hallucination about the adventure--that strong tea and nervous
excitement may have had something to do with it, then, sir, I am
willing to leave the matter open to future negotiation.
It is true I found myself in my room at the _Hotel de Venise_ when I
recovered from the stunning effects of the blow; also, that the door
was locked on the inside; but I am by no means prepared to give up the
point on such flimsy evidence as that. Should the physiological fact
be developed in the course of these sketches that there is still any
portion of the brain left, and that it performs its legitimate
functions, of course I shall be forced to admit that the case is at
least doubtful; yet even then it can not be regarded in the light of a
pure fabrication. Has not Dickens given us, in his "Dreams of Venice,"
the most vivid and truthful description of the City of the Sea ever
written; and what have I done, at the worst, but try in my humble way
to give you a general idea of Moscow in the pleasing form of a
midnight adventure, ending in an assassination? You have seen the
Kremlin and the Church of St. Basil, and the by-streets and alleys,
and the interior of a low traktir, and the cats, and the Russian beds,
and many other interesting features of this wonderful city, in a
striking and peculiar point of view, and I hold that you have no right
to complain because, like Louis Philippe, I sacrificed my crown for
the benefit of my subject. Besides, has not my friend Bayard Taylor
given to the world his wonderful experiences of the Hasheesh of
Damascus; his varied and extraordinary hallucinations of intellect
during the progress of its operations? And why should not I my humble
experiences of the tchai of Moscow?
_Reader._ Slightly sprinkled with _vodka_, or "the little water."
Oh, that was just thrown in to give additional effect to the tea!
_Reader._ It won't do, sir--it won't do! The deception was too
transparent throughout.
Well, then, since you saw through it from the beginning, there is no
harm done, and you can readily afford to make an apology for impugning
my voracity.
_Lady Reader._ But who was the heroine? What became of her?
Ah! my dear madam, there you have me! I suspect she was a French
countess, or more likely an actress engaged in the line of tragedy.
Her style, at all events, was tragical.
_Lady Reader_ (elevating her lovely eyebrows superciliously). She was
rather demonstrative, it must be admitted. You brought her in
apparently to fulfill your promise, but sent her off the stage very
suddenly. You should, at least, have restored her to her friends, and
not left her in that den of robbers.
That, dear madam, was my natural inclination; but the fact is, d'ye
see, I was drugged--
_Lady Reader_ (sarcastically). It won't do, Mr. Butterfield--your
heroine was a failure! In future you had better confine yourself to
facts--or fresh water.
Madam, I'd confine myself to the Rock of Gibraltar or an iceberg to
oblige you; therefore, with your permission, I shall proceed to give
you, in my next, a reliable description of the Kremlin.
CHAPTER XIV.
THE KREMLIN.
Not the least of the evils resulting from this harum-scarum way of
traveling and writing is the fact that one's impressions become sadly
tumbled together and very soon lose their most salient failures. To be
whirled about the world by land and sea, as I have been for the last
year, is enough to turn one's brain into a curiosity shop. When I
undertake to pick out of the pile of rubbish some picture that must
have been originally worth a great deal of money, I find it so
disfigured by the sheer force of friction that it looks no better than
an old daub. The pity of it is, too, that the very best of my
gatherings are apt to get lost or ruined; and sometimes it happens
that when I varnish up what appears to be valuable it turns out not a
groat. Want of method would ruin a Zingalee gipsy or a Bedouin Arab.
No doubt you have already discovered to your sorrow that when we start
on a visit to the Kremlin, it is no sure indication that we will not
spend the day in the Riadi or the old-clothes market. If either you or
I ever reach our destination, it will be by the sheerest accident. And
yet one might as well undertake to see Rome without the Capitoline
Hill, or Athena without the Acropolis, as Moscow without the Kremlin.
We have had several glimpses of it, to be sure, in the course of our
rambles, but you must admit that they were very vague and
indefinite--especially the last, when, if you remember, we were
laboring under some strange mental hallucination.
The Kremlin has been fully described by many learned and accomplished
travelers. Coxe, Atkinson, Kohl, and various others, have given
elaborate accounts of it; yet why despair of presenting, in a homely
way, some general idea of it, such as one might gather in the course
of an afternoon's ramble? After reading all we find about it in books
of travel, our conceptions are still vague and unsatisfactory.
Probably the reason is, that minute details of history and
architecture afford one but a very faint and inadequate idea of the
appearance of any place. Like the pictures of old Dennen, they may
give you every wrinkle with the accuracy of a daguerreotype, but they
fail in the general effect, or resemble the corpse of the subject
rather than the living reality. I must confess that all I had read on
Russia previous to my visit afforded me a much less vivid idea of the
actual appearance of the country, the people, or the principal cities,
than the rough crayon sketches of Timm and Mitreuter, which I had seen
in the shop windows of Paris. This may not be the fault of the
writers, who, of course, are not bound to furnish their own eyes or
their own understanding to other people, but it seems to me that
elaborate detail is inimical to strong general impressions. I would
not give two hours' personal observation of any place or city in the
world for a hundred volumes of the best books of travel ever written
upon it; and next to that comes the conversation of a friend who
possesses, even in an ordinary degree, the faculty of conveying to
another his own impressions. A word, a hint, a gesture, or some
grotesque comparison, may give you a more vivid picture of the reality
than you can obtain by a year's study. Now, if you will just consider
me that friend, and resign yourself in a genial and confiding spirit
to the trouble of listening; if you will fancy that I mean a great
deal more than I say, and could be very learned and eloquent if I
chose; if you will take it for granted that what you don't see is
there nevertheless, the Kremlin will sooner or later loom out of the
fogs of romance and mystery that surround it, and stand before you,
with its embattled walls and towers, as it stood before me in the
blaze of the noonday sun, when Dominico, the melancholy guide, led the
way to the Holy Gate. You will then discover that the reality is quite
wonderful enough in its natural aspect, without the colored spectacles
of fancy or the rigid asperities of photographic detail to give it
effect.
Like many of the old cities of Europe, Moscow probably had its origin
in the nucleus of a citadel built upon the highest point, and
commanding an extensive sweep of the neighborhood. Around this houses
gathered by degrees for protection against the invasions of the
hostile tribes that roamed through Russia at an early period of its
history. The first object of the Kremlin was doubtless to form a
military strong-hold. It was originally constructed of wood, with
ramparts thrown up around it for purposes of defense, but, in common
with the rest of Moscow, was destroyed by the Tartars in the
fourteenth century. Under the reign of Dimitri it was rebuilt of
stone, and strongly fortified with walls and ditches, since which
period it has sustained, without any great injury, the assaults of
war, the ravages of fire, and the wear and tear of time. Kief and
Vladimir, prior to that reign, had each served in turn as the capital
of the empire. After the removal of the capital to Moscow, that city
was besieged and ravaged by Tamerlane, and suffered from time to time
during every succeeding century all the horrors of war, fire,
pestilence, and famine, till 1812, when it was laid in ashes by the
Russians themselves, who by this great national sacrifice secured the
destruction of the French army under Napoleon.
During the almost perpetual wars by which Moscow was assailed for a
period of four centuries, the Kremlin seems to have borne almost a
charmed existence. With the exception of the Grand Palace, the Bolshoi
Drovetz, built by the Emperor Alexander I., and the Maloi Drovetz, or
Little Palace, built by the Emperor Nicholas, and the Arsenal, it has
undergone but little change since the time of the early Czars. In
1812, when the French, after despoiling it of whatever they could lay
their hands upon, attempted, in the rage of disappointment, to blow up
the walls, the powder, as the Russians confidently assert, was
possessed by the devil of water, and refused to explode; and when they
planted a heavily-loaded cannon before the Holy Gate, and built a fire
on top of the touch-hole to make it go off, it went off at the breech,
and blew a number of Frenchmen into the infernal regions, after which
the remainder of them thought it best to let it alone.
The Kremlin, as it now stands, is a large collection of palaces,
public buildings, and churches, situated on the crown of a high bank
or eminence on the left side of the Moskwa River, nearly in the centre
of the city. It is surrounded by a high embattled wall, forming
something of a triangle, about a mile in circumference, through which
are several massive gateways. This wall is very strongly constructed
of stone, and is about twenty-five or thirty feet in height. It forms
many irregular sub-angles, and is diversified in effect by numerous
towers, with green pyramidal roofs; abutments and buttresses; and a
series of guard-houses at intervals along the top. The general color
is white, making rather a striking contrast with the green-roofed
towers, and the gilded domes and many-colored cupolas of the interior
churches. Outside of this wall, on the upper side of the main angle,
are some very pleasant gardens, handsomely laid out, with fine shady
walks, in which many of the citizens spend their summer evenings,
strolling about, enjoying the fresh air. Other parts of the exterior
spaces are devoted to drosky stands, markets, and large vacant spaces
for public gatherings on festa days and great occasions of military
display. From every point streets diverge irregularly, winding outward
till they intersect the inner and outer boulevards. These boulevards
are large circular thoroughfares, crossing the Moskwa River above and
below. They are well planted with trees, and have spacious sidewalks
on each side; but, unlike the boulevards of Paris, are only dotted at
irregular intervals with houses. To the eastward lies the Katai Gorod,
or Chinese City, and to the westward the Beloi Gorod, or White City.
Isolated in a great measure from the various quarters of the city,
Russian and Tartaric, by the gardens, the large open spaces, the
markets, and the river, the Kremlin looms up high over all in solitary
grandeur--a mass of churches, palaces, and fortifications, surmounted
by the tower of Ivan Veliki, which stands out in bold octagonal relief
against the one with its numerous bells swung in the openings of the
different stages, thundering forth the hours of the day, or tolling a
grand chorus to the chanting of innumerable priests in the churches
below. Approaching the Spass Vorota, or Gate of the Redeemer, through
which none can enter save with uncovered heads--such is the veneration
in which this Holy Gate is held by all classes--we witness a strange
and impressive spectacle. Over this wonderful gate, incased in a frame
covered with glass, stands the holiest of all the pictured relics of
this sacred place, a painted figure of the Savior, emblazoned with
gilding, and with a lamp swung in front, which burns night and day, as
it has burnt since the days of Ivan the Terrible. Before this sacred
image all true believers bow down and worship. While the great bells
of the tower are booming out their grand and solemn strains, it is a
profoundly impressive spectacle to witness the crowds that gather
before this holy shrine, and bend themselves to the earth--the rich
and the poor, the decorated noble and the ragged beggar--all alike
glowing with an all-pervading zeal; no pretense about it, but an
intense, eager, almost frantic devotion. Many a poor cripple casts his
crutches aside, and prostrates himself on the paved stoneway, in the
abandonment of his pious enthusiasm. Men and women, old and young,
kneel on the open highway, and implore the intercession of the
Redeemer. From the highest officer of state to the lowest criminal, it
is all the same. The whole crowd are bowing down in abject
humiliation, all muttering in earnest tones some prayer or appeal for
their future salvation. And now, as we enter the gate, the stranger,
whatever may be his persuasion or condition, whether a true believer
or a heretic of high or low degree, must join in the general torrent
of veneration so far as to uncover his head as he walks beneath that
sacred portal; for, as I said before, none can pass through the Spass
Vorota without this token of respect for its sacred character. The
greatest of the Czars have done it through a series of centuries. The
conqueror of Kazan, Astrakan, and Siberia has here bared his imperial
head; Romanoff, Peter the Great, even the voluptuous Catharine, have
here done reverence to this holy portal; and all the later sovereigns
of Russia, Alexander I., Nicholas, and Alexander II., ere they
received their kingly crowns, have passed bareheaded through the Spass
Vorota. Need we hesitate, then, profane scoffers as we may be, when
such precedents lie before us? Apart from the fact that I always found
it convenient to do in Rome as the Romans do, and in Moscow to conform
as far as practicable to the customs of the Moscovites, I really have
no prejudice on any subject connected with the religious observances
of other people. In pleasant weather I would walk a mile bareheaded to
oblige any man who conscientiously thought it would do him the least
good; more especially in a case like this, where, if one fails to doff
his shlapa, a soldier stands ready to remind his "brother" or "little
friend," or possibly "little father," that he (the brother, little
friend, or little father) has forgotten his "beaver."
We have now, thanks to Dominico, who has touched us up on all these
points, gotten safely and becomingly through the Holy Gate without
committing the sin of irreverence toward any of the saints, living or
dead. We have passed through a high archway, about twenty paces in
length, roughly paved with stones, and now put on our hat again as we
ascend the sloping way that leads to the grand esplanade in front of
the palaces and churches. This is a broad paved space, walled on the
outer edge, forming a grand promenade overlooking the Moskwa River,
and from which a magnificent view is had of the lower city, that
sweeps over the valley of the south. Standing here, we have a grand
_coup d'oeil_ of the river above and below, its bridges covered with
moving crowds, its barges and wood-boats, and many-colored
bath-houses, glittering in the sun; farther off, a dazzling wilderness
of the innumerable churches of the lower city, with their green,
yellow, red, and gilded cupolas and domes; still beyond, the trees and
shrubberies of the outer boulevards; to the left, the great Foundling
Asylum, fronting on the river, with its vast gardens in the rear; to
the right, the Military Hospital, the Barracks, and, far in the
distance, over the gleaming waters of the river, the Sparrow Hills,
from which Napoleon caught the first glimpse of Moscow; and then the
grand Convent of the Douskoi, within the outer wall, near the Kalonga
Road; from which, sweeping over toward the right, once more we catch a
glimpse of the wooded shade of the Race-course, the Hospital of St.
Paul, and the Convent of St. Daniel; and to the left, beyond the outer
wall, of various grand convents and fortifications, till the eye is no
longer able to encompass all the wondrous and varied features of the
scene. Turning now toward the north, after we have feasted upon this
brilliant and glittering series of views, each one of which we might
linger over for hours with increased delight, we stand facing the
principal palaces and churches of the Kremlin--the Terema, containing
the audience chambers, and the Granovitaya Palata, the coronation
halls of the Czars; the new palaces; the Cathedral of the Assumption;
the tower of Ivan Veliki; the Treasury and Arsenal; with innumerable
glimpses of other and scarcely less prominent buildings, which unite
in forming this wonderful maze of sacred and royal edifices. It would
be very difficult, if at all practicable, to convey by mere verbal
description a correct and comprehensive idea of the strange mingling
of architectural styles here prevailing. The churches present, no
doubt, the most picturesque effects, but this is not owing to any
grandeur in their proportions. None of them are either very large or
very high; but they are singularly varied in form, as if thrown
together in bunches, without regard to order; some with Gothic gables,
some round, some acutely angular, and all very rudely and roughly
constructed, even the perpendicular lines being irregular. The walls
are whitewashed, and in many places stained with age. The roofs are
for the most part of earthen tiles, imburnt with strong prismatic
colors, and shining like the inner surfaces of abalone shells. The
domes are white, green, red, and yellow, and each church has a number
of gilded or striped cupolas, rising irregularly from the roofs,
shaped like bunches of globular cactus, such as one sees on the
hill-sides of San Diego. If the comparison were not a little
disparaging to their picturesque beauty, I should say that some of the
cupolas--especially those of a golden cast--reminded me of mammoth
pumpkins perched on the top of a Mexican Mission-house, for even the
buildings themselves have something of a rude Mexican aspect about
them. The new palace of the Bolshoi Dvoretz, built by the Emperor
Alexander over a portion of the site of the old Tartar palace, is a
large, square, uninteresting building, with nothing beyond its vast
extent and grand façade to recommend it. The Terema and the
Granovitaya Palata--both remains of the old Tartar palace--are highly
ornamented with trellised work, and are interesting as well from
their style of architecture as their contents. It was from the
terraced roof of the Terema that Napoleon took his first grand view of
the city of Moscow, after entering the gates of the Kremlin. The one
contains a fine collection of curiosities, including various portraits
of the Czars; the other the royal chamber, magnificently decorated
with embroidered velvet hangings, candelabras, frescoes, gildings, and
carved eagles bearing thunderbolts, and the great chair of state, in
which the emperors sit enthroned to receive the homage of their
vassals after the imposing ceremony of the coronation. But it would be
an endless task to undertake an account of even a day's ramble through
the interior of these vast palaces and public buildings. I paid five
rubles for tickets and fees to porters, and, with the aid of
Dominico's enlightened conversation, came out after my grand tour of
exploration perfectly bewildered with jeweled crowns, imperial
thrones, gilded bedsteads, slippery floors, liveried servants, stuffed
horses, old guns, swords, and pistols, glassware and brassware,
emeralds and other precious stones, and altogether disgusted with the
childish gimcrackery of royalty. Great Alexander, I thought to myself,
who would be a Czar of Russia, and have to make his living at the
expense of all this sort of tom-foolery? Who would abide even for a
day in a bazar of curiosity-shops, bothered out of his wits by
servants and soldiers, and the flare and glitter of jewelry? It
certainly all looked very shallow and troublesome to a plain man,
destitute by nature of kingly aspirations. To confess the truth, I was
utterly unable to appreciate any thing but the absurdity of these
things. I can not discover much difference, save in degree, between
barbaric show on the part of savages and on that of civilized people.
For what, after all, do these coronation halls and gewgaws amount to?
Who is truly king upon earth, when there is "an everlasting King at
whose breath the earth shall tremble?"
Strange, indeed, and not calculated to exalt one's impression of
royalty, is the fact that, after purchasing a ticket to see all these
relics of the great Czars of Russia, a horde of officers, servants,
and lackeys, in imperial livery, must be feed at every turn. It is a
perfect system of plunder from beginning to end. At the door of the
new palace I was stopped by some functionary in white stockings,
polished slippers, plush breeches and plush coat, actually blazing
with golden embroidery; his head brushed and oiled to the intensest
limits of foppery, and his hands adorned with white kid gloves, who
refused to permit me to enter until he had arranged some infernal
compact of pay with my guide, Dominico. After showing me through the
grand chambers, pointing out the beds, bed-quilts, writing-desks,
chairs, and wash-basins of the Czars, he finished up his half hour's
labor by making a profound bow and holding out his hand, beggar
fashion, for his fee. I gave him half a ruble (about 87½ cents), at
which his countenance assumed an expression of extreme pity and
contempt. Dominico had informed him that I was a stranger from
California, which had the effect of eliciting from him various
passages of exceeding politeness up to that moment. But he now came
out in his true colors, and demanded haughtily, "Was this the pitiful
sum what the gentleman intended as a recompense for his services?"
Dominico shrugged his shoulders. The liveried gentleman became excited
and insolent--assuring me, through the guide, that no stranger of any
pretensions to gentility ever offered him less than a ruble. I must
confess I was a little nettled at the fellow's manner, and directed
Dominico to tell him that, having no pretensions to gentility, I must
close my acquaintance with him, and therefore bid him good-morning.
There never was an instance in which I disappointed any beggar with so
much good will. I have no doubt, if he has read any thing of
California, he labors under the impression that I am an escaped
convict from San Quentin.
O most potent Alexander, Czar of all the Russias, is this the only
way you have of paying your servants? Do you thus make a raree-show of
the palace of your forefathers, and require every man who enters it
for the purpose of enlightening his benighted understanding to pay
your imperial lackeys the sum of three bits? Is it not enough that
your soldiers and retainers should hawk old clothes through the
markets of the Riadi for a decent living, without making a small
speculation out of the beds and wash-stands in which your noble
fathers slept and (possibly) washed their faces?
One of the most remarkable objects of interest within the walls of the
Kremlin is the Tzar Kolokol, or King of Bells, cast in 1730 by order
of the Empress Anne, and said to be not only the largest bell, but the
largest metal casting in existence. This wonderful bell is formed
chiefly of contributions of precious metals, bestowed as religious
offerings by the people from all parts of the Russian empire. Spoons,
plates, coins, and trinkets were thrown by the devout inhabitants into
the melting mass, and thus, each having a share in it, the monarch
bell is regarded with feelings of peculiar affection and veneration
throughout Russia. Writers differ as to its original use and location,
some contending that it was first hung in a tower, which was destroyed
by fire in 1737, and that the large fragment was broken out of it in
the fall, which is now exhibited by the side of the bell; others that
it never was hung at all, but that this fragment resulted from a
failure in the casting. Be that as it may, it was all dug out of the
ground in 1837, and placed in its present position on a pedestal of
granite, close by the tower of Ivan Veliki.
Standing in an open space, where the eye necessarily takes in many
larger objects, including the great tower, but a very inadequate idea
can be formed of the extraordinary dimensions of this bell. Cast in
the usual form, its appearance at the distance of fifty or a hundred
yards is not at all striking; but when you draw near and compare the
height of the groups of figures usually gathered around it with that
of the bell, it is easy to form some conception of its gigantic
proportions. The fragment placed upright against the granite pedestal
looks at a little distance scarcely three feet high, but as you
approach you perceive that it is at least six. The bell itself is
twenty-one feet three inches high, by twenty-two feet five inches in
diameter, and varies from three feet to three inches in thickness.
Underneath this immense metallic canopy is a chapel, in which is a
shrine at which many thousands of the Russians every year offer up
their devotions. The entrance to this is through an iron gateway, and
the visitor descends several stone steps before he stands upon the
paved floor of the chapel. Looking upward and around him, he then for
the first time realizes the vast magnitude of this wonderful casting.
It is almost impossible to conceive that such a prodigious body of
metal was ever at one time a molten mass, seething over vast furnaces.
Imagine a circular room more than twenty feet in diameter, and of
proportionate height, and you have some faint idea of the interior of
the Tzar Kolokol. It is said that it required ten strong men to draw
the clapper from the centre to the inner rim, by means of ropes, so as
to produce the ordinary sounds of which the bell was capable. This I
can very well credit; for the great bell of the Ivan Tower, not a
third of the size of this, has an iron tongue which requires the
strength of three men to strike against the rim. The tremendous depth
and volume of the tones sent forth for many leagues around by the
monarch bell must have been sublime beyond conception, judging by this
single fact, that while in Moscow, the largest bell I heard sounded
was far inferior in size and weight to that of the Ivan Tower, which
is rung only on state occasions, yet the sounds were so deep and
powerful that they produced a reverberation in the air resembling the
distant roar of thunder, mingled with the wailing of the winds in a
storm. When all the bells of the tower, save the largest, were tolled
together, the effect was absolutely sublime, surpassing in the
grandeur and majesty of their harmony any thing I had ever heard
produced through human agency. Judge, then, what must have been the
effect when the Tzar Kolokol rolled forth a jubilee or a death-knell
from his iron tongue!
I do not wonder that the Russians regard this bell with such peculiar
feelings of reverence. There is something to arouse the most profound
and reverential emotions of our nature in the simple, grand, and
mysterious melody of all great bells--something of the infinite that
exalts our thoughts and aspirations from the earth. In my
recollections of travel I have few purer or more endearing pleasures
than the impressions produced by sounds like these. Often the grand
old strains of the bells of Lima, Mexico, and Spain seem still to
linger on my ear, and I never dream the wild and varied dream of my
travels over without feeling that these mysterious voices from many
lands have not spoken without a meaning, that "Life, with all its
dreams, shall be but as the passing bell."
From the Tzar Kolokol I took my way, under the guidance of Dominico,
to the tower of Ivan Veliki, which we ascended by the winding stairway
of stone. The view from the top of this tower is incomparably the
finest to be had from any point within the limits of Moscow. Here,
outspread before us in one vast circle, lay the whole wondrous city of
the Tzars--a perfect sea of green roofs, dotted over with innumerable
spires and cupolas. The predominant features are Asiatic, though in
the quarter to the west, called the Beloi Gorod, or White City, are
the evidences of a more advanced civilization. Apart from the
churches, which give the city its chief interest and most picturesque
effect, the public buildings, such as the theatres, hospitals,
military barracks, colleges, and riding-school possess no great
attractions in point of architectural display, and add but little to
the scenic beauties of the view. In gazing over this bewildering maze
of habitations and temples of worship, I was again strongly impressed
with some two or three leading characteristics, which, being directly
opposed to the idea I had formed of Moscow before seeing it, may be
worthy of repetition. The general colors of the buildings, roofs, and
churches are light, gay, and sparkling, so that the whole, taken in
one sweep of the eye, presents an exceedingly brilliant appearance,
more like some well-contrived and highly-wrought optical illusions in
a theatre--such, for example, as the fairy scenery of the
"Prophete"--than any thing I can now remember. The vast extent of the
city, compared with its population (the circuit of its outer wall
being twenty miles, while the population is but little over 300,000),
is another characteristic feature; but this is in some measure
accounted for by the great average of small houses, the amount of
ground occupied by the Kremlin, the inner and outer boulevards, and
the suburbs within the outer wall, the number of gardens and vacant
lots, and the large spaces occupied by the ploschads or public
squares.
Looking beyond the city and its immediate suburbs, a series of
undulating plains lies outstretched toward the eastward and southward,
while toward the northward and westward the horizon is bounded by low
pine-covered hills and occasional forests of birch. No high mountains
or abrupt outlines are any where visible--all is broad and sweeping,
conveying some premonition of the vastness of the steppes that divide
this region from the Ural Mountains. Waving fields of grain, pastures
of almost boundless extent, and solitary farm-houses lie dim in the
distance, while in the immediate vicinity of the city cultivation has
been carried to considerable perfection, and the villas and estates of
the nobility present something more of the appearance of civilization
than perhaps any thing of a similar kind to be seen in Russia.
Contrasted with the country around St. Petersburg, and the desert of
scrubby pines and marshes lying for a distance of nearly five hundred
miles along the line of the railway between the two great cities, the
neighborhood of Moscow is wonderfully rich in rural and pastoral
beauties. Viewing it in connection with the city from the tower of
Ivan Veliki, I certainly derived the most exquisite sensations of
pleasure from the novelty, extent, and variety of the whole scene.
Yet, calmly and peacefully as it now slumbers in the genial sunshine
of a summer's afternoon, what visions it conjures up of bloodshed and
rapine, plague, pestilence, and famine, and of all the calamities
wrought by human hands, and all the appalling visitations of a divine
power by which this ill-fated spot has been afflicted. Looking back
through the wide waste of years, the mighty hosts of Tamerlane uprise
before us, pouring through the passes of the Ural, and sweeping over
the plains with their glittering and bloodstained crests like demons
of destruction carrying death and desolation before them. Then the
giant Czars, half saints, half devils, loom through the flames of the
ill-fated city, with their myriads of fierce and defiant warriors
stemming the torrent of invasion with the bodies of the dying and the
dead. Then are the streets choked with blackened ruins and putrid
masses, and the days of sorrow and wailing come, when the living are
unable to bury the dead. Again, a great famine has come upon the city
after the days of its early tribulations have passed away, and strong
men, driven to desperation by the pangs of hunger, slay their wives
and children, and feed upon the dead bodies, and mothers devour the
sucking babes in their arms; and horror grows upon horror, till, amid
the slaughter, ruin, and madness wrought by this unparalleled
calamity, a hundred thousand corpses lie rotting in the streets in a
single day, and the city is decimated of its inhabitants! The scene
changes again. Centuries roll on; a dreary day has come, when the
foreign invader once more holds possession of the citadel. With the
prize in his hands, fires burst from every roof in every quarter.
Three hundred thousand of the inhabitants have fled; a wind arises and
fans the devouring flame; churches and houses, temples and palaces,
are wrapped in its relentless embraces; the convicts and the rabble
run like demons through the streets, drunk with wine and reveling in
excesses; soldiers, slaves, and prostitutes pillage the burning ruins,
all wild and mad with the unholy lust of gain. Soon nothing is left
but blackened and smoking masses, the ruins of palaces, temples, and
hospitals, and the seared and mutilated corpses of the dead who have
been crushed by the falling walls or burnt in the flames. Then the
invading hosts, stricken with dismay, fly from this fated and
ill-starred city to darken the snows of Lithuania with their bodies;
and of five hundred thousand men--the flower of French chivalry--but
forty thousand cross the Beresina to tell the tale! Surely Moscow,
like Jerusalem, hath "wept sore in the night."
While lounging about through the gilded and glittering mazes of the
Uspenski Saber, almost wearied by the perpetual glare of burnished
shrines, my attention was attracted by a curious yet characteristic
ceremony within these sacred precincts. In a gold-cased frame, placed
in a horizontal position in one of the alcoves or small chapels, was a
picture of a saint whose cheeks and robes were resplendent with gaudy
colors. This must have been St. Nicholas or some other popular
personage belonging to the holy phalanx. His mouth was very nearly
obliterated by the labial caresses of the worshipers who came there to
bestow upon him their devotions. A stone step, raised about a foot
from the flagged pavement, was nearly worn through by the knees of the
penitents, who were forever dropping down to snatch a kiss from his
sacred lips--or at least what was left of them, for his mouth was now
little more than a dirty blotch, without the semblance of its original
outline. While pondering over the marvelous ways in which men strive
to cast off the burden of their sins, I observed a very graceful and
elegantly-dressed female approach, and with an air of profound
humility kneel in the accustomed place. As she drew back her veil she
displayed a remarkably pretty face, and there was something quite
enchanting in the coquetry with which she ignored the presence of a
stranger. Of course she could have had no idea that any person of the
opposite sex would dare to think of female loveliness in such a place,
and the charming unconsciousness of her manner, as she adjusted the
folds of her dress, and revealed the exquisitely rounded contour of
her form, was the very best proof of that fact. A perfect withdrawal
of self from the world and all its vanities was her ruling expression.
Thrice did this lovely creature gracefully incline her head and kiss
the blotched countenance of that inanimate saint. Ah me! what a luxury
it must be to be a saint! What a lucky fellow is St. Nicholas, to be
kissed by such honeyed and pouting lips as these! Chaste and pious
kisses they may be, but, notwithstanding that, it must be very hard to
keep cool, under the circumstances. Who would not suffer a life of
martyrdom, and be turned into a picture or an image on such terms?
Surely this bewitching damsel must have committed some dreadful sin to
be thus soliciting the saintly intercession of a little picture with a
dirty mouth! Perhaps she had recently suffered her own delectable lips
to be pressed by the bearded mouth-piece of some tender and persuasive
lover, and now sought to make atonement by kissing St. Nicholas! By
all the powers of beauty, I'll forswear sack, Dominico, and try--ha!
here comes a devotee of another sort. Let us wait a while. For, as I
live, it is a great puncheon of a woman, weighing over three hundred
pounds--puffing and steaming as she waddles toward the shrine--a
perfect Falstaff in petticoats. Shade of Venus! what a face and
figure! Carbuncled with wine, and bloated with quass and cabbage soup,
I'll bet my head, Dominico, she's a countess! How the juices of high
living roll from her brow as she stoops down, and gives the
unfortunate St. Nicholas a greasy dish-cloth of her fat lips! Faugh!
I'll consider about my course of life, Dominico. There are some
inconveniences in being a saint. Next comes an old and toothless
crone, all draggled with dirt, limping on crutches--a most pitiful
object to look upon. She hobbles slowly and painfully up to the place
just vacated--puts her crutches aside, kneels down, and, bowing low
her palsied head, presses a dry, shriveled, and leathery kiss upon the
grease-spot left by the fat woman. Thrice she performed this ceremony,
mumbling over in her guttural way the prescribed formula; and then
rising, regained her crutches, and begged for alms. Well, of course I
gave the alms; but the other part of the performance suggested some
painful thoughts. It was surely enough to moderate the ardor of one's
aspirations toward a saintly life. Yet, after all, Dominico, every
sweet must have its bitter. Let us not despair yet. Next comes a great
bearded Mujik, all tattered and torn--a regular grizzly bear on his
hind legs, and drunk at that. This horrid monster has evidently not
known the use of either soap or water for many a long day. His
accustomed beverage must be vodka, and grease the only application
ever used to purify his skin. He, too, kneels down and gives the image
three cordial smacks--a pretty heavy penalty to endure on the part of
any saint. Upon my word, Dominico, I don't think it would be possible
for me to stand that! But hold--here comes a fellow who caps the
climax. A bilious, yellow-skinned, black-eyed fop, dressed in the
height of fashion, with frizzled black hair, divided behind, and
smelling strong of pomatum, a well-oiled mustache, and a simpering,
supercilious expression--one of those nasty creatures that old Kit
North says never can be washed clean. He looks conceited and silly
enough to be an attache to the court of his imperial highness the
emperor. When this fellow knelt before the picture and slavered it
with his ugly mouth, a dizzy sensation of disgust came over me. Upon a
general review of all the circumstances, Dominico, I have concluded
that it might not be so pleasant, after all, to be a saint--in Russia.
It must not be supposed from this little sketch of a characteristic
scene that I wish to ridicule any form of religion. I saw precisely
what I state, and am in no way responsible for it. If people imagine
this sort of thing does them any good, they are quite welcome to enjoy
it; but they must not expect every body else to be impressed with the
profound sensations of solemnity which they feel themselves. The
Russians may kiss the heads off every saint in Moscow without the
slightest concern or opposition on my part. The Romans have kissed a
pound of brass off the big toe of St. Peter, in the grand Cathedral at
Rome, and I see no reason why other races should not enjoy similar
privileges, only it does not produce the same effect upon every body.
Yet, in some sense, such scenes are not without an aspect of sadness.
It is melancholy to look upon such a mingling of glitter and
barbarism, wealth and poverty, sincerity, debasement, and crime. No
human being is truly ridiculous, however grotesque may be the
expression of his feelings, when they are the genuine outpouring of a
contrite heart. These nobles, common citizens, and beggars, thus
meeting upon common ground, in a country where the distinctions of
rank are so rigidly observed, and for the time being disregarding all
differences of condition; forgetting their ambitions, their
jealousies, and animosities, and giving themselves up with such
unselfish zeal to all the demands made upon them by their forms of
religion, is, in itself, a touching and impressive sight. I confess
that when the first shock of grotesqueness, so strikingly connected
with all I saw, passed away, the feeling left was one of unutterable
sadness. These people were all fellow-beings, and, right or wrong,
they were profoundly in earnest; yet, while thinking thus, I could not
but fancy the same divine strain of warning that was wafted to the
house of Israel still lingered in the air: "Every man is brutish in
his knowledge; every founder is confounded by the graven image; for
his molten image is falsehood, and there is no breath in them; they
are vanity and the work of errors; in the time of their visitation
they shall perish."
In reference to the interiors of the churches of the Kremlin, I can
only find space to say, after having visited them all, that they
present a confusion of gilded and glittering aisles, pillars, alcoves,
chapels, and painted domes, which baffles any thing like accurate
description. The Cathedral of the Assumption is literally lined with
gilding, daubs of paintings representing scriptural scenes, figures
and pictures of saints, dragons and devils of every conceivable color
and oddity of design and costume, and burnished shrines and
candelabras. Through the dazzling mazes of this sacred edifice crowds
of devotees, priests, and penitents are continually wandering; here,
casting themselves upon their knees, and bowing down before some
gold-covered shrine; there standing in mute and rapt adoration before
some pictured symbol of eternity--grandees, beggars, and all; the
priests bearing tapers and chanting; the air filled with incense; the
whole scene an indescribable combination of moving appeals to the
senses. All the churches of the Kremlin partake, more or less, of this
character. In some of them, the old bones and other relics held
peculiarly sacred are inclosed within iron gratings or railings, and
are only accessible to the visitor through the services of a priestly
guide. Every visitor must, of course, pay for the gratification of his
curiosity; so that the bones of the most venerated characters in the
history of the Russian Church are turned into a considerable source of
profit. It may well be said that every saint pays his own way, so long
as there is a fragment of him left in this world. If one could be
assured of the truth of all he learns during a tour of inspection
through these receptacles of sacred relics, it would indeed confound
all his previous impressions that the days of miracles had passed.
There is a picture in the Uspenski Saber, the bare contemplation of
which, combined with a fervent appeal, it is confidently asserted,
recently effected a sudden and wonderful cure in the case of a
crippled man, who was carried there from his bed, but after his
devotions before this picture walked out of the door as well as ever;
and every where about these sacred precincts pictures and carved
images are abundant which at stated intervals shed tears and manifest
other tokens of vitality.
Outside, on the steps of those churches, the stranger encounters
innumerable gangs of beggars, who watch his incoming and his outgoing
with the most intense eagerness--rushing toward him with outstretched
hands, calling upon all the saints to bless him and his issue forever
and ever, and sometimes bowing down to the earth before him, in their
accustomed way, as if he himself partook of some sacred attributes.
Apart from the wretched aspect of these poor creatures, among which
were the lame, the halt, and the blind from all the purlieus of
Moscow, there was something very revolting in the debasement of their
attitudes. To assist them all was impossible; and I often had to
struggle through the crowds with feelings akin to remorse in being
compelled to leave them thus vainly appealing to my charity. When
alone, hours after, the weary and pathetic strain of their
supplications would haunt me, bearing in its sorrowful intonations a
weird warning that we are all bound together in the great fellowship
of sin.
And now, while we are taking our last lingering look at the Kremlin,
the mighty bells of the tower toll forth a funeral knell. A priest
lies dead in one of the churches, his coffin draped in the habiliments
of woe. The chanting rises ever and anon above the death-knell that
sweeps through the air. Standing aloof, we listen to the solemn sounds
of mourning. The funeral cortége comes forth from the church. The
hearse, with its plumed horses all draped in black, receives the
coffin; priests and mourners, bearing lighted tapers, lead the way,
chanting a requiem for the departed; and thus they pass before us--the
living and the dead--till they reach the Holy Gate. Then the priests
and the crowd bow down and pray; and when they have passed out from
under the sacred arch, they turn before the image of the Savior and
pray again; then rising, they cross themselves devoutly and pass on to
the last earthly resting-place of their friend and brother.
Surely death draws us nearer together in life. I thought no more of
forms. What matters it if we are all true to our Creator and to our
convictions of duty! Life is too short to spend in earthly
contentions.
"In the morning it flourisheth and groweth up; in the evening it is
cut down and withereth."
CHAPTER XV.
RUSSIAN MANNERS AND CUSTOMS.
Rude and savage as the lower orders are in their external appearance,
they certainly can not be considered deficient in politeness, if the
habit of bowing be taken as an indication. In that branch of
civilization they are well entitled to take rank with the Germans and
French, from whom, doubtless, they have acquired many of their forms of
etiquette. Something, however, of Asiatic gravity and courtliness
mingles with whatever they may have adopted from the more sprightly and
demonstrative races of the South; and a certain degree of dignity,
accompanied though it may be with rags and filth, is always observable
in their manners. The alacrity, good nature, and enthusiasm so
characteristic of the Germans, and the dexterous play of muscles and
vivacious suavity of the French, are wholly deficient in the
Russians--such of them, at least, as have retained their nationality.
The higher classes, of course, who frequently spend their summers at
the watering-places of Germany and their winters in Paris, come home,
like all traveled gentlemen, with a variety of elegant accomplishments,
the chief of which is a disgust for their own language and customs.
This, indeed, seems to be a characteristic of several other
nations--an inordinate desire to become denationalized by imitating
whatever is meretricious and absurd in other people; and you need not
be surprised should you fail to recognize even your unpretending friend
and correspondent on his return to California; for although I still
pretend to write a little English, I no longer speak it except in
broken accents. Having also worn out three good hats practicing the art
of bowing on the boulevards of Paris and the glacis of Frankfort, I
never pretend now to recognize any body without striking the top of my
tile against the cap of my knee.
[Illustration: A PASSAGE OF POLITENESS.]
This, you see, is all in the way of excuse for the Russians, and
arises rather from an excess of good nature than an excess of egotism.
Constant practice in the solemnities of street-worship--uncovering
their heads and bowing low before their numerous saints and
shrines--may have some influence upon the stateliness of Russian
politeness. It is, however, a very prominent and characteristic trait,
and in some of its phases rather astounding to a stranger. A common
thing in the streets of Moscow is to see a couple of sturdy beggars,
uncouth as grizzly bears, meet and stop before each other with the
utmost and most punctilious gravity. Beggar number one takes his
greasy cap from his head slowly and deliberately, gives it a graceful
sweep through the air, and, with a most courtly obeisance, exhibits
the matted tuft, or the bald spot on the top of his head, to his
ragged friend. Beggar number two responds in a similar courteous
style, neither uttering a word. Each then gravely replaces his cap,
touches the brim of it once or twice by way of representing a few
extra bows, and passes on his way with an expression of profound
dignity, utterly unconscious of the grotesque effect of all this
ceremony to a stranger. I have seen the most vagabond-looking
istrovoschik, or drosky-drivers, jump out of their drosky and perform
similar courtesies toward each other; and where men of this craft are
given to politeness, one may rest assured that it must be a national
characteristic. All seem to be the slaves of ceremony, from the Czar
down to the Mujik. Porters, wagoners, water-carriers, butchers,
bakers, and chimney-sweeps are equally skilled in the noble art of
bowing. At first, judging by the uncouth faces and the grimy costumes
of these interesting people, such passages of politeness have very
much the effect of burlesque. It seems impossible that men of such
rude aspect can be in earnest. One soon gets used to it, however, and
regards it as a matter of course. I could not but think how strange it
would look to see a couple of Sacramento or San Francisco hack-drivers
meet in some populous part of the town, and each one take off his hat
to the other, and, with a graceful flourish, make a courtly salaam; or
a pair of draymen stop their drays, get down leisurely, approach each
other in an attitude of impressive dignity, take off their hats, and
double themselves up before an admiring audience. They would certainly
be suspected in our rude country of poking fun at each other. I can
very well understand why butchers and chimney-sweeps should be polite,
since they are accustomed to scraping; and the custom looks
appropriate enough with many other classes, including barbers, who are
generally men of oily manners, and tailors and printers, who are
naturally given to forms; but with men whose business is intimately
associated with horse-flesh, I must say it has something of a
satirical aspect. Never in this world can I force myself to believe
that a hack-driver is in earnest in any thing short of his fare. Do
not understand me as casting any injurious reflection upon this
valuable class of men; but it is a melancholy feature in humanity--of
which sad experience enables me to speak feelingly--that integrity and
horse-flesh are antagonistical, and can never go together. For the
hack-driver personally I have great respect. He is a man of the
world--knows a thing or two about every body and every thing; is
constitutionally addicted to cheating, and elevates that noble
propensity into one of the fine arts; maintains his independent
character, and pockets his extraordinary profits in the face of all
municipal restrictions; scoffs at the reign of the law, and drinks his
regular bitters. I consider him a persecuted and an injured man; but
of such elastic stuff is he made that he rises above all persecutions
and all injuries, and still is, and ever will be, master of that
portion of the human race which travels and abounds in cities. He is
given to humor, too, is the hackman. Nobody better understands how to
give a joke, or to resent one. An adept in ridicule, he always enjoys
it when not applied to himself. If he is deficient in any one quality,
perhaps it is piety. Hack-drivers, as a class, are not pious men; they
may be very good men in their way, but, strictly speaking, they are
not pious. Neither are they much given to mutual courtesies,
especially at steam-boat landings. Therefore I say that to see
hack-drivers bow down before shrines and stop on public thoroughfares,
and with the utmost gravity uncover their heads and interchange
courtly salaams--nay, even kiss hands in certain cases--is a novel and
peculiar spectacle, suggestive of improvements which might be
beneficially imported into our country.
There was an impassive, abstracted air about Dominico very difficult
to describe, but very impressive to a stranger. All these
peculiarities were developed the first or second day of our
acquaintance. About the third he seemed to grow impatient, hummed over
a few gems from unknown operas, and was less disposed than usual to
unbend himself. There was evidently a coolness growing up between us.
I suspected it originated in my hat, which was really very shabby; and
fancied I detected a supercilious expression in his eye as it ranged
over my coat and down to my boots. At length he said, "Monsieur, you
appear to travel with very little baggage!"
_Myself._ Yes, only a knapsack.
_Dominico_ (after a pause). Pray what business may Monsieur be engaged
in?
_M._ None at all--just ranging about miscellaneously.
_Dom._ May I be so bold as to ask what part of England does Monsieur
come from?
_M._ Oh, I didn't come from England at all!
_Dom._ (puzzled). Pray where does Monsieur come from?
_M._ Oh, just come from over the way there--California!
_Dom._ (elevating his eyebrows and stopping suddenly). California? The
great gold country? Where they dig gold out of the ground?
_M._ Yes--that's my country.
_Dom._ (admiringly). Oh, then, Monsieur is a gentleman of fortune,
just traveling for pleasure?
_M._ Precisely; for pleasure and information combined. My estates are
situated in the city of Oakland.
_Dom._ Is that a large city?
_M._ Well, it covers a good deal of ground--as much, I think, as
Moscow.
_Dom._ If Monsieur pleases, we will take a drosky and visit some of
the gardens?
_M._ Agreed.
And so ended the conversation. It was marvelous, the change it
produced in Dominico; how his dignity evaporated; how vivacious he
became; how frank and unreserved he was in his descriptions of the
wonders of Moscow; how he scorned to take trifles of change, and how
magnificently he disregarded expenses. Wherever we went, however grand
the domestics, soldiers, or police, Dominico was always high above
them, and I could hear him descanting constantly on the wonderful
richness of California. Doubtless the strain of his conversation ran
about thus: "Behold, gentlemen, I have brought before you a living
Californian! Notwithstanding the shabbiness of his hat, and the
strange and uncivilized aspect of his clothes, he is the richest man
in that land of gold! Yes, gentlemen, his income can scarcely fall
short of ten millions of rubles per annum. Make way, if you please!"
All things considered, Dominico let me off pretty well at the close
of our acquaintance, upon my explaining to him that a draft for five
hundred thousand rubles which ought to be on the way had failed to
reach me, owing doubtless to some irregularity in the mail service, or
some sudden depression in my Washoe stocks.
In the way of food the hotels are well supplied, and the fare is not
bad in the principal cities. Fish and game are abundant, but veal is
the standard dish. I called for a beefsteak at the hotel in St.
Petersburg, and was furnished with veal. The soup was made of veal.
After salad we had veal cutlets. Then came a veal stew; next in order
was a veal pie; and before the courses were finished I think we had
calf's head baked and stuffed. At a station-house on the way to Moscow
I hurriedly purchased a sandwich. It was made of veal. I asked for
mutton-chops at the hotel in Moscow, and got veal. In fact, I was
surfeited with veal in every possible shape wherever I went.
Now I am not particular in matters of diet. In a case of emergency I
can relish buzzard, but if there is any one kind of food upon earth
that I think never was designed to be eaten, it is veal. No very young
meat is good, to my notion--not even young pig, so temptingly
described by the gentle Elia; nor young dog, so much esteemed by
Chinese and Russian epicures. It has neither the consistency nor the
flavor of the mature animal, and somehow suggests unpleasant images of
flabby innocence. There is something horribly repugnant to one's sense
of humanity in killing and devouring a helpless little calf. Who but a
cannibal can look the innocent creature in the face, with its soft
confiding eyes, its gentle and baby-like manners, and calculate upon
devouring its brains, or satisfying the cravings of hunger upon its
tender ribs? Who can see the butcher, with his murderous knife in such
a connection, without a sting of remorse at the idea of the mother's
grief--her great eyes swimming in tears, her lowing cries haunting him
for days? I never see a gang of these helpless little creatures
driven to the shambles without thinking of that touching picture, the
Murder of the Innocents.
In vain I tried to escape this veal passion in Russia. Nay, even in
Finland and Sweden it pursued me. I actually began to feel flabby, and
felt ashamed to look the poor cows in the face. It was a marvel how
the cattle, of which there seemed to be no lack, ever arrived at
maturity. If the people kill all the calves, as appeared to be the
case, in the name of wonder, where do the cows come from? This
question puzzled me exceedingly for some time, and was only solved
when I asked a Russian to explain it. "Oh," said he, smiling at my
simplicity, "they only kill the male calves. They allow the cow calves
to grow up!"
Still, when I came to reflect upon the reason given, it occurred to me
that they must be a very singular race of cows. Perhaps they were
Amazonian cows.
This leads me by an easy and not ungraceful transition to the
Foundling Asylum of Moscow, one of the largest and most remarkable
institutions of the kind in the world. In other public places
throughout Europe, especially in picture-galleries and museums, the
visitor is required to deliver up his walking-stick at the door, in
return for which he receives a ticket corresponding with one fastened
upon the article itself--as in baggage-cars upon the railway, so that
he may redeem it when he thinks proper. But I had little thought, in
my experience of foreign travel, that a similar system should prevail
in regard to the deposit of living beings, as in the foundling
establishment of Moscow. Here, any body with a surplus baby can carry
it and have it labeled around the neck, receive a ticket in return
corresponding in number with the deposit, and call for it at any
future time, certain that it will be delivered up--if alive. The
building is of immense extent, and is situated on the banks of the
Moskwa River, near the lower part of the town. The grounds around it
are tastefully laid out, and must occupy twenty or thirty acres, the
whole being surrounded by a high wall, and comprising numerous and
substantial outhouses, workshops, etc., for the use of the
establishment. Many thousand children are annually taken in and nursed
at this institution, no restriction being imposed upon the parents,
who may be either married or single, to suit their own taste or
condition. The regular force of wet-nurses employed is about six
hundred, besides which there are numerous dry-nurses and teachers for
the older children. It is estimated that the entire expense of
conducting the establishment is not less than five or six hundred
thousand rubles per annum, most of which is defrayed by voluntary
contributions and interest received on loans.
I spent a forenoon rambling through the various wards, and can safely
say I never before saw such an extraordinary collection of human
squabs within one inclosure. It was certainly one of the strangest and
saddest spectacles I had ever witnessed--so many infant specimens of
humanity, bundled up like little packages of merchandise, labeled,
numbered, and nursed with a mathematical regularity fearfully
inconsistent with one's notions of the softness and tenderness of
babyhood. To be sure, they are well treated--kindly and gently
treated, perhaps; but it is pitiful to see these helpless little
creatures bereft of the gentle motherly touch; washed, physicked,
nursed, and too often buried by hired and unsympathizing hands; and no
more thought of them, save in the way of duty, than so many little
animals destitute of souls. The very idea of attachments formed by
nurses is of itself a painful subject of contemplation; for of what
avail is it that a child should be loved by its nurse, or find in her
a new mother, when by the rules of the establishment there must be
constant separations. It is said that over twenty-five thousand
children derive, either directly or indirectly, support from this
establishment. About six thousand are taken in annually, of which
perhaps one fourth die. Many of them are not far from dead when
admitted; and it is only surprising, considering the deprivations they
must endure in being so suddenly withdrawn from the mother's care,
that so large a proportion should survive.
If it be a wise child that knows its own father, it would be a very
remarkable father who could recognize his own child among such a
variegated collection as I saw here. Never upon earth was there a more
astonishing mixture of baby flesh--big babies and little babies,
pug-nosed, black-eyed, blue-eyed, fat and lean, red, yellow, and white
babies--all sorts ever invented or brought to light in this curious
world of ours. Yet the utmost order was observed, and the beds,
nurses, cribs, and feeding apparatus looked wonderfully clean for a
Russian institution, where cleanliness is not generally the prevailing
characteristic. But, great guns! what music they must make when they
all get started in one grand simultaneous chorus! five or six hundred
babies, of both sexes, from one to two or three years old, in one
department; as many girls from three to five in another; boys of the
same age in another; older boys and older girls innumerable in
another! What a luxury it must be to hear them all together! In
general, however, they do not make as much noise as might be supposed.
I only heard about forty or fifty small choruses while there; but,
trifling as that was, it enabled me to form an idea of the style of
music that might be made when five or six thousand gave their whole
mind to it. I am personally acquainted with one small baby not over a
couple of years old, who, when excited of nights, can very nearly
raise the roof off the house, and am certain that five hundred of the
same kind would burst the whole city of Moscow sky-high if ever they
got at it together. These Russian foundlings, however, are generally
heavy-faced, lymphatic babies, and fall naturally into the machine
existence which becomes their fate; otherwise it would seem a hard
life for the poor nurses, who are not always gifted with the patient
endurance of mothers. I was told that the children only cried
periodically, say at intervals of every four hours, but hardly credit
that statement. Being for the most part soggy little animals, they
spend a goodly portion of their time in sleep, and doubtless, when not
sleeping, are much given to eating and drinking.
During the summer months several thousand of these children are sent
out in the country to nurse, after which they are returned in due
order. As soon as they become old enough, they are taught reading and
writing, and the most intelligent are selected to become teachers. The
boys usually receive a military education, and a certain proportion of
them furnish recruits for the imperial army.
CHAPTER XVI.
DESPOTISM _versus_ SERFDOM.
The reader has probably discovered by this time that I have no great
affection for the political institutions of Europe, and am pretty
strong in my prejudices against despotic governments of all sorts. The
fact is, I believe our own, with all its faults, is the best system of
government ever devised by man.
The Emperor Alexander II. is admitted on all hands to be a most
estimable and enlightened sovereign. He possesses, in a greater
degree, perhaps, than any of his predecessors, the confidence and
affection of his people. All his labors since he ascended the throne
in February, 1855, have been directed to the emancipation of the serfs
and the general welfare of his country. No fault can be found with him
by the most ardent advocate of human liberty. His sympathies are--as
far as it is practicable for those of an autocrat, clothed with
absolute powers, to be--in favor of freedom. Toward the people and the
government of the United States he entertains the most kindly feeling,
and would doubtless sincerely regret the overthrow of our republican
system. He has, moreover, devoted himself with unceasing zeal to the
abolition of many onerous and unnecessary restrictions upon the
liberty of the press and the civil rights of his subjects; encouraged
institutions of learning; prohibited to a considerable extent cruelty
and oppression in the subordinate branches of the public service; and
in all respects has proved himself equal to the great duty imposed
upon him, and worthy the esteem and commendation of the civilized
world. Yet I can not see what there is in a despotic form of
government, under the very best circumstances, to enlist our
admiration or win our sympathies. We may respect and appreciate a good
ruler, but every autocrat is not good of his kind; nor is every
country in a happy condition because it may be exempt from the horrors
of commotion. But no sovereign power can ever attain a rank among the
civilized nations of the earth--beyond the respect to which its brute
force may entitle it--so long as the very germ of its existence is
founded in the suppression of civil and political liberty among its
subjects.
What, after all, does the emancipation of the serfs amount to? They
are only to be nominally free. The same power that accords them the
poor privilege of tilling the earth for their own subsistence may at
any time withdraw it. They are not to be owned by individual
proprietors, and bought and sold like cattle; but they possess none of
the privileges of freemen; have no voice in the laws that govern them;
must pay any taxes imposed upon them; may be ordered, at any time, to
abandon their homes and sacrifice their lives in foolish and
unnecessary wars in which they have no interest; in short, are just as
much slaves as they were before, with the exception that during the
pleasure of the emperor they can not be sold. But will every emperor
be equally humane? There is nothing to prevent the successor of
Alexander the Second from restoring the system of serfage, with all
its concomitant horrors. It will not be difficult to find a
predominating influence among the nobles to accomplish that object;
for this has been a long and severe struggle against their influence,
and owes its success entirely to the unremitting labors of the
sovereign. The next autocrat may labor with equal earnestness to undo
this good work; but it matters little, save in name. Despotism and
freedom are antipodes, and can not be brought together. It may be said
that it would be difficult to enslave a people who had once even
partially tasted the sweets of liberty, but the history of Russia does
not furnish testimony to that effect.
Since the publication of the ukase abolishing serfdom, there has been
a great deal of trouble in the more remote districts between the serfs
and their masters, arising chiefly from ignorance on the one side, and
discontent and disaffection on the other. Every possible obstacle has
been thrown in the way of a fair understanding of its terms. Some idea
may be formed of the extreme ignorance and debased condition of the
serfs when I mention that in many parts of the country, where the
influence of the court is not so immediately felt by the proprietors,
they have assumed such despotic powers over their dependents, and
exercise to this day such an inexorable command over their lives,
liberties, and persons, that the poor creatures have almost learned to
regard them as demigods. When a nobleman of high position, owning
large tracts of land and many serfs, visits his estates, it is not an
uncommon thing to see the enslaved peasantry, who are taught to
believe that they exist by his sufferance, cast themselves prostrate
before him and kiss the ground, in the Oriental fashion, as he passes.
It is a species of idolatry highly soothing to men in official
position, who are themselves subjected to almost similar debasement
before their imperial master. In some instances, especially at a
distance from the capital, the acts of cruelty perpetrated by these
cringing and venal nobles, as an offset to the arbitrary rule under
which they themselves exist, are enough to make the blood curdle. The
knout, a terrible instrument made of thick, heavy leather, and
sometimes loaded with leaden balls, is freely used to punish the most
trifling offense. Men and women, indiscriminately, are whipped at the
pleasure of their masters, the only real restrictions being that if
they die within twenty-four hours the owners are subjected to trial
for murder; but even that is nearly always evaded. The present emperor
has done much to meliorate these abuses; but his orders have to go a
great way and through a great many unreliable hands, and it is very
difficult to carry them into effect unless they accord with the views
of a venal and corrupt bureaucracy and an unprincipled corps of
subordinates.
[Illustration: SERFS.]
In some of the districts where the serfs were purposely kept in
ignorance of the true meaning and intention of the emperor's ukase, a
vague idea took possession of their minds that they were free, and
that the proprietors had no right to compel them to labor, or in any
way curtail their liberty. Many of them left the estates to which they
were attached, and sought occupation elsewhere on their own account;
others refused to obey the orders given them by their seigneurs, and a
great deal of trouble and bloodshed ensued. In some instances it
became necessary to call in the military forces of the district to
subdue the mutinous serfs and preserve order. Protests and
remonstrances innumerable were addressed to the emperor, pointing out
the absolute impracticability of carrying his beneficent scheme into
effect, based chiefly on the ground that the serfs themselves were
opposed to emancipation. This, of course, occasioned a great deal of
anxiety and trouble at head-quarters. It was rather a hard state of
things that the very peasants whom he was striving with all his power
to serve should, by their insubordination--arising sometimes, it was
true, from ignorance, but too often from willful misconduct--do even
more than their masters to frustrate his beneficent designs. These
troubles went on from time to time, till eventually a deputation of
three hundred serfs made their way to St. Petersburg and solicited an
audience of the emperor. His majesty, probably in no very amiable
mood, called the deputation before him, and demanded what they
desired. They answered that they wished an explanation in regard to
his order of emancipation, which many of their people did not
understand. Some thought they were to be free in two years, but many
thought they were free from the date of the order, with the simple
condition that they were to pay sixty rubles to their masters the
first year, and thirty the second; others, again, that they were free
without any condition whatever. All they wanted to know was, were they
free or not? If free, why were they forced to labor for other people;
and if not free, was there any prospect that they ever would be? The
emperor asked, "Can you read?" Some answered that they could read,
others that they could not. "Have you read my order?" demanded the
emperor of those who could read. "Yes, your majesty," they replied,
"we have read your order, but we don't understand it." All who could
read and had read the order were removed on one side. "Now," said the
emperor, turning to the others, "has this order been read to you?"
"Yes, your majesty," they replied, "but we don't understand it." "Very
well," observed the emperor; "you seem to be an intelligent set of
men, capable of learning, and we shall see that the order is made
intelligible. We had supposed it was perfectly clear in its terms;
but, since you do not or will not comprehend it, all you who can read
must be whipped." The literary portion of the deputation were then
taken off by a file of soldiers, treated to a score or two of lashes
each, and sent back to their people to explain the manifesto. "And all
you," said the emperor, turning to the unlearned members of the
deputation, "must serve three years as soldiers, during which time we
shall see that you are taught to read." They were accordingly taken
off, and furnished with a general outfit of uniforms, and are now
serving their imperial master in a military capacity.
Summary justice, that, one might say. It seems, at all events, a
pretty prompt method of explaining official documents, and could
probably be adopted beneficially in other countries.
CHAPTER XVII.
REFORM IN RUSSIA.
In my last chapter I took occasion to acknowledge, in terms of sincere
respect and admiration, the noble efforts of the present emperor,
Alexander II., in the great cause of human freedom. He has already
gone very far beyond any of his predecessors in the extension of
civil liberty among his subjects, but a great crisis has now arrived
which will practically test his sincerity. What he has heretofore done
will be worse than nothing unless he remains true to himself and the
noble cause which he has espoused. History shows us that the
sovereigns of Russia have not always been indifferent to public
opinion; but, with one or two honorable exceptions, it also shows us
that they have been more liberal in their professions than in their
acts. I ventured the assertion that there are insuperable obstacles to
a very high order of civilization in Russia. Perhaps this is too
gloomy a view of the case, and, considering the wonderful natural
capacities of the people, it may be thought rather illiberal for an
American; but I must confess the difficulties strike me as very
serious. The severity of the climate in the middle and northern parts
of the empire, the vast proportion of desert and unavailable lands,
and the diversity of fierce and ignorant races to be governed, are
certainly obstacles not easily overcome, if we are to understand by
civilization a predominance of moral and intellectual cultivation,
combined with material prosperity and a reasonable share of liberty
and happiness among the mass of the people. It is not that a few shall
be learned, and intelligent, and privileged above all others, but that
the broad fields of knowledge shall be open to all; that education
shall be general, and the right of every class to the fruits of their
labor and the enjoyment of civil, political, and religious liberty
shall be recognized and protected by the laws of the land. In this
view, it seems to me that the most serious obstacle to civilization in
Russia is presented by the despotic nature of the government, and the
difficulty, under the existing state of things, of substituting
another for which the ignorant masses are prepared. The aristocracy
are constantly clamoring for increased powers and privileges, but it
is very certain they have no affinity, beyond pecuniary interest, with
the middle and lower classes, and that their sole aim is to interpose
every possible obstacle to the progress of freedom. The emperor is
now practically the great conservative power who stands between them
and their dependents. Any increase of authority to the aristocracy
would deprive the masses of the limited protection which they now
enjoy. Already the head and front of Russian despotism are the
camarilla and the bureaucracy, who practically administer the affairs
of the government. So long as they hold their power, they stand as a
barrier to all progress on the part of the people. Thoroughly
aristocratic and tyrannical in all their instincts, they have every
thing to lose and nothing to hope from a constitutional form of
government. Why, it may be asked, if the emperor is sincere in his
professions of regard for freedom and civilization, does he not make
use of the aristocratic powers vested in him, and cast away from him
all these obstacles to the perfection of his plans? The question is
easier asked than answered. We are but little enlightened upon the
secret councils that prevail at the court of St. Petersburg. Whatever
is done there is only known by its results; whatever finds its way
into the public press is subject to a rigid censorship, and is worth
little so far as it conveys the remotest idea of facts. What you see
demonstrated you may possibly be safe in believing, but nothing else.
It may be easier to speak of removing obstacles than to do it; or it
may be that the emperor has no fixed policy for the future, and
therefore hesitates to encounter difficulties through which he can not
see his way without any adequate or well-defined object.
No country in the world presents such an anomalous condition of
affairs as that presented by Russia at this time. The preliminary
steps have been taken to set free over twenty-three millions of white
people, so accustomed to a condition of servitude, so generally
ignorant, and so incapable of thinking or acting for themselves, that
many, if not most of them, look with dread upon the movement made for
their emancipation. The rights reserved to them are so little
understood, and, indeed, so visionary under any circumstances--for
two rights to the same land would be as impracticable in Russia
between the proprietors and the peasant as in our country between the
whites and the Indians--that they can see nothing beyond abandonment
to increased oppressions and sufferings in the proposed movement.
Degraded as they are, accustomed from infancy to obey their rulers,
kept in a condition of brutish ignorance in order that they may be
kept in subjection, it is natural they should be unable to realize the
mysterious benefits about to be conferred upon them. In their present
abject position they enjoy a certain kind of protection from their
owners, who, if not always governed by motives of humanity, are at
least generally susceptible of the influences of self-interest, and
take care to feed and clothe them, and provide for them in cases of
sickness; and although this is done at the expense of their labor, it
relieves them from responsibilities which they are scarcely prepared
to assume. To set them free against their own will, or even admitting
that, in common with all mankind, they must have some general
appreciation of liberty--to undertake so radical a change in their
condition and future prospects without a practical definition of their
rights and the substitution of some substantial benefits for the
withdrawal of responsibilities now borne by their owners, is an
anomalous movement attended by no ordinary difficulties. When we add
to this the adverse influences of the landed proprietors; their
determined hostility to the abrogation of rights and privileges which
they have so long enjoyed; their entire conviction that, without
direct powers of coercion, they can not depend upon the labor of the
peasantry; that the natural tendency of free labor is to elevate the
masses, and render them less subservient to the will of the
aristocracy, then, indeed, it may well be conceived that the natural
difficulties arising from the ignorance and improvident habits of the
class now held in bondage will be greatly augmented. Believing,
however, that all men have a right to their freedom; that such a
right is the gift of the Creator, which can only be wrongfully
withheld from them by any earthly power; that it is superior to any
casual influences or considerations of policy, we can not but admire
the moral courage of the movement, and the apparent zeal and constancy
with which the emperor has labored, in the face of every obstacle, to
carry it into effect. But the question now arises, is it to end before
it assumes a substantial form? Is it to be a mere chimera gotten up to
entertain and delude the world? If Alexander aspires to the approval
of all enlightened people beyond the limits of his own empire, he must
make good his claim to it by a determined policy, carrying in it the
germ of civil and political liberty. It will not do to "tickle the
ears of the groundlings" with high-sounding phrases of human progress,
while he fetters their limbs with manacles of iron. There can be no
such thing as a graduated despotism--a stringent form of controlling
the ignorant and a mild form of controlling the intelligent--under one
system of government. The ways to knowledge, to honorable distinction,
to wealth and happiness, must be open to all; justice must be
administered with impartiality, and wherever there is taxation there
must be representation. There can not be one kind of justice for the
rich and another for the weak; constitutions for some and despotisms
for others. The machine must be complete in all its parts, and work
with a common accord, or it will soon become deranged and break to
pieces.
Peter the Great did much toward the physical improvement of the
country. He built up cities, created a navy, organized an army,
extended his dominions, encouraged education, and fostered the
mechanical arts; but he held a tight rein upon his subordinate
officers, and suppressed what little freedom the masses enjoyed. He
was ambitious, and liked to enjoy a reputation for enlightenment, but
no regard for civilization beyond the power it gave him to extend his
dominions. His subjects were merely his instruments. All he learned
in other countries was to sharpen them and keep them in order, that he
might use them to the best advantage. His ambition was not of the
highest or noblest kind. The page he has left in history is
interesting and instructive, but there is nothing in it to warrant the
belief that it will be selected by a remote posterity to be bound up
among the lives of truly great and good men. Catharine II. extended
the privileges of the nobility, made wars upon inoffensive nations,
corrupted the morals of her people, and manifested her regard for the
serfs by giving large numbers of them away to her paramours. The
Emperor Alexander I. was ambitious of distinction, as the most
cultivated and enlightened sovereign of his time. He issued liberal
edicts, but seldom observed them. He wished to be thought friendly to
liberty, without sacrificing any of his despotic privileges. He gave a
Constitution to the Poles, but surrounded it by such forms and
influences that they could derive no advantage from it. He was weak,
cunning, and conceited; given rather to the delicate evasions of
diplomacy than to the bold straightforwardness of truth and honor. The
Emperor Nicholas was utterly selfish and despotic in all his
instincts. He professed to take a profound interest in the cause of
emancipation, but it was purely a question of policy with him. He
cared nothing about human rights. His dark and cruel nature was
unsusceptible of a noble or generous impulse. While he preached
liberal generalities, he ruled his subjects with an iron rod. He was
bigoted, narrow-minded, and brutal. The sense of right was not in his
nature. His ambition was to be an object of heathenish idolatry to his
subjects--whether as a god or devil it mattered nothing; fear was the
only incense he was capable of craving; and if such a nature can be
susceptible of enjoyment, his consisted in the abasement of his
fellow-creatures. The severity of his decrees, the rigor of his
administration, and the attributes of infallibility which he cast
around his person, caused him to be regarded with awe, but not with
love. He could brook no opposition nor survive a failure. Few tears
were shed when he was stricken down in his pride. He left but a small
legacy of good deeds to endear him in the memory of his subjects. The
haughty Czar lies dead in his sepulchre--cold, stern, and solitary as
he lived.
Nicholas left his country in a distracted and unhappy
condition--deeply in debt; commerce deranged; the military service in
the worst possible condition, and nearly every branch of the public
service in the hands of corrupt and incapable men. Well might he say
to his own son upon his dying bed, "Poor Alexander, my beloved son,
where lie the ills of unhappy Russia?" Well might he endeavor to make
atonement for his errors by recommending at his last hour the
emancipation of the serfs.
The milder spirit of Alexander reigns in his place. What future, then,
does this humane young sovereign propose to himself and his country?
He gives personal liberty to the serfs, but he can not allow them to
become intelligent and responsible beings. If they do, they will no
longer acknowledge his right to deprive them of political liberty. He
removes various restrictions from the press, and the moment the light
of intelligence strikes upon the minds of his subjects, they call for
a constitution and the overthrow of a despotic camarilla. He
undertakes to restrain a powerful, intelligent, and unscrupulous
aristocracy, who by instinct, education, and self-interest hate the
very name of freedom, and they turn against him, and provoke those
whom he would serve to acts of rebellion against his authority. We can
scarcely wonder that this is the case when we consider the interests
they have at stake. It is not likely that they will quietly relinquish
their accustomed source of revenue. On the other hand, the argument is
advanced, and with a good share of reason, that the emancipation of
the serfs is really a benefit to the owners. It relieves them of
enormous responsibilities, and, by encouraging industry, increasing
the intelligence, self-reliance, and capacity of the serfs themselves,
makes their labor more profitable to the landed proprietors. This is a
view of the case, however, in which they have no faith. Believing in
nothing free except the free use of authority in their own persons,
they can not be brought to understand the advantages of free labor.
But these considerations do not, by any means, comprise all the
difficulties in which Russia is now placed. The dependencies are
constantly in revolt. Constant troubles are going on in the remote
districts. Nine millions of the population--the old believers who do
not profess the prevailing religion--have their secret conferences,
their plans and purposes, all antagonistical to the existing form of
government. A reign of terror exists in Poland. The Finns detest their
rulers, and are only kept in a partial state of quietude by a total
subversion of the liberties guaranteed to them under the Constitution.
The municipal franchises existing in the various provinces of Russia
are a mere mockery; mayors and corporate officers are imprisoned or
banished without cause or process of law. The councils of the
government are secret, and nobody can conjecture how long he may be
permitted to enjoy his personal liberty. The exchequer is annually
deficient from thirty to forty millions of rubles. Public credit is
growing worse and worse every day, and the whole country is falling
into a condition of bankruptcy. It is evident, even to the most
superficial observer, that a great crisis is at hand. The Poles are
united in their resistance to the despotic sway of the government.
Witness the late bloody massacres in Warsaw (1862), against which the
whole civilized world cries aloud in horror! They will not now be
satisfied with empty professions and still emptier concessions. They
demand a Constitution--not a mere paper Constitution, like that of
1815, made to be violated by every lackey of the government sent to
coerce them. They demand civil, political, and religious liberty. Can
the emperor grant it to a dependency, and withhold it from the body of
his people?
This has been tried for nearly half a century--ever since 1815--and
what has it resulted in? Are the Poles any better satisfied now than
they were then? Are they benefited and enlightened by being cut down
and hacked to pieces by a set of drunken and bloodthirsty Cossacks in
the name of the great Russian government?
The Emperor Alexander must adopt some other system. He will never
reduce the Poles to submission in that way. Overpowered and cut to
pieces they may be, but not conquered. They belong to the
unconquerable races of mankind. The blood that heroes, and heroines,
and martyrs are made of runs in the veins of every man, woman, and
child of the Polish nation. If they can not govern themselves, it is
equally certain they can not be governed by any despotic power. It is
not by slaughtering defenseless women and children; not by forcing
churches to be opened; not by sending savage and heartless minions to
crush the people down in the dust, that Alexander II. is to win a
reputation for humanity and liberality. It is not by issuing edicts of
emancipation to his serfs, and then, at the instigation of a cruel and
ruthless camarilla, deluging the country with their blood to keep them
quiet, that he is going to do it. It is not by extending privileges to
the press and the universities, and then, by a sudden and violent
suppression of all liberty, undertake to arrest some abuses, that he
is likely to achieve it. It is not by countenancing venal and
unscrupulous writers to sustain every outrage that his nobles may
choose to perpetrate, and banishing all who respectfully remonstrate
against their misconduct, that he is to attain the highest eminence as
a civilized sovereign. It is not by keeping up a system of foreign
surveillance, by which Russians in other countries are watched and
their lives threatened, that these glorious results are to be
achieved. His secret police may (on their own responsibility or his,
it matters little to the victims which) assassinate M. Herzain, the
editor of the _Kolokol_, in London; but if they do, a thousand
Herzains will rise in his place. No; it is by no such means as these
that the name of Alexander II. is to be transmitted to posterity as
the most liberal and enlightened sovereign of the age.
If he would regenerate Russia--if he would avert the dismemberment of
a great empire--if he would accomplish the noble mission upon which
the world gives him the credit of having started, he must banish from
his presence all evil councils; he must be true to himself and the
great cause of humanity; he must give all his people, and all his
dependencies, a liberal and equitable constitution, which will protect
them from the despotic sway of military governors and the aristocracy.
He must establish a constitutional government, complete in all its
parts; abolish secret tribunals, and open the avenues of knowledge and
justice to all. He must see that the laws are fairly and equitably
administered. He must enlarge the liberty of the press, and proscribe
no man for his opinions, unless in cases of treason, and under
peculiar circumstances of civil commotion endangering the public
safety. He must abolish the censorship of the colleges, universities,
and places of public amusement, and leave them to be regulated by the
municipal authorities. In short, he must cease to be a despot and
become a constitutional monarch. Will he do it? Can he do it? Does he
possess the moral courage to do it? Time alone can answer these
questions. I sincerely believe the emperor is a good man, actuated by
the best motives, but not always governed by the wisest counsels. I
believe he now has an opportunity of earning a name that enlightened
men will bless through all time to come. So far, it is to be regretted
that he has not pursued the most consistent course, but it is not yet
too late to retrieve his errors. One thing is certain--there can be
no half-way measures of reform in Russia. The spirit of the age--the
general increase of intelligence--requires a radical change. He can
not be autocrat and king at the same time. He must be one or the
other. If he tries both, the empire will be dismembered before many
years.
Whatever may be the extent and variety of those hidden restraints,
which doubtless exist, and must, from the very nature of the
government, be exempt from the scrutiny of a stranger as well as from
popular discussion, it is beyond question that in the principal
cities, at least, very little is visible in that respect which would
be considered objectionable in the municipal regulations of any city
in the United States. From this, of course, must be excepted the
presence in every public place and thoroughfare of vast numbers of
soldiers and officers; but that is a feature which St. Petersburg
shares in common with all the cities of Europe, and the traveler can
scarcely regard it as an indication of the depressed condition of
Russian civilization. I think I have seen in the streets of Pesth,
Vienna, Berlin, and Frankfort quite as many soldiers, according to the
population, as in St. Petersburg. I would say something about Paris,
but I expect to go there after a while, and would dislike very much to
be placed in the position of Mr. Dick Swiveller, who was blockaded at
his lodgings, and never could go out without calculating which of the
public ways was still left open. But if there be officers enough of
all kinds in Paris to keep the public peace and suppress objectionable
correspondence and pamphlets against members of the reigning family,
there are also enough in Lyons and Marseilles, as well as other cities
of France, to prove that civilization and soldiers, however inimical
to each other, may, by the force of circumstances, be reduced to a
partnership. The question that troubles me most is to determine
precisely what is the highest condition of civilization. It can not be
to enjoy fine palaces and have a great many soldiers, for Marco Polo
tells us that the great Kubla Khan had palaces of gold and precious
stones of incredible extent and most sumptuous magnificence, such as
the world has never seen from that day to this, and could number his
troops by millions; yet nobody will undertake to say that the Tartars
of the tenth century were in advance of the French of the nineteenth
century. It can not consist in the enjoyment of freedom, and the
general dissemination of education and intelligence among the people;
for where will you find a freer or more intelligent people than those
of the United States, who are rated by the Parisians as little better
than savages? I think civilization must consist in the perfection of
cookery, and a high order of tailoring and millinery. If the French
excel in the manufacture of cannons and iron-cased ships, and devote a
good deal of attention to surgery, it is a necessity imposed upon them
by the presence of Great Britain and their natural propensity for
strong governments; but I am disposed to believe that their genius
lies in gastronomy and tailoring, and in the construction of hats and
bonnets. Since the latter articles cover the heads of the best classes
of mankind, they must be the climax or crowning feature of all human
intelligence. I am greatly puzzled by the various opinions on this
subject entertained by the most cultivated people of Europe. The
English seem to think the perfection of civilization consists in
preaching against slavery and then trying to perpetuate it, in order
to get hold of some cotton; the French in suppressing family
pamphlets, annulling the sacred contract of marriage, building
iron-cast ships, cooking frogs, snails, and cats, making fancy coats,
and topping off the human head with elegant hats and bonnets; the
Austrians in the manufacture of shin-plasters for their soldiers, and
the making and breaking of constitutions for ungovernable
dependencies; the Prussians in the blasphemous necromancy of receiving
crowns for their kings direct from God; and all in some shape or other
professing devotion to human liberty, and doing every thing in their
power to subvert it. Truly it is enough to puzzle one who seeks for
truth amid the prevailing fogs of error that seem to have descended
upon mankind. If there be any degree in honesty, I really think the
Emperor of Russia is entitled to the palm of being the most sincere in
his profession of regard for the advancement of human freedom. He
imposes no restrictions upon his own subjects which he does not
consider necessary for the maintenance of his despotic power, and,
while struggling against the influence of a wealthy, intelligent, and
refractory aristocracy to extend the boon of personal liberty to
twenty-three millions of serfs, is the only sovereign who boldly and
openly manifests a generous sympathy for the cause of freedom in the
United States. While I can see nothing to admire in any form of
despotism, or any thing in common between us and the government of
Russia beyond the common bond of humanity that should connect the
whole human race, I am forced to admit, with all my hatred of despotic
institutions, that they are not always a sure indication of an
illiberal and insincere spirit on the part of the rulers, or of a
base, sordid, and groveling spirit on that of the subjects. It is a
matter of regret, calculated to shake our faith in the beneficial
effects of a high order of intelligence among men, that the course of
England and France, since the commencement of our difficulties,
presents a very unfavorable contrast with that of Russia; for,
although self-interest has restrained them from actual participation
in the overthrow of our government, they have given its enemies the
full benefit of their sympathy.
You will smile, perhaps, at the oddity of the idea, considering the
roughness of our country, the scarcity of palaces, fine equipages,
liveried servants with white kid gloves and cocked hats, and the
absence of a perfect railroad system in our remote quarter of the
world; but I am perfectly in earnest in saying that, if asked to lay
my hand upon my heart and declare, in all sincerity, what country upon
earth I do consider the most highly favored and enlightened at the
present stage of the nineteenth century, I should not hesitate one
moment to name the State of California. The idea has been growing in
my head ever since I came to Europe. It is based upon considerations
which are susceptible of the clearest demonstration. For example,
assuming our population to be five hundred thousand, where will you
find the same number of educated, enterprising, and intelligent men in
any one district or state of Europe, not excepting any given part of
France or England? If we have fewer learned and scientific men than
older countries can boast, we have a greater number above mediocrity,
according to our population, and a vastly higher average of general
intelligence. If our laws are too often loosely administered, it is at
least in the power of the people to remedy the difficulty by
substituting good and faithful for corrupt and inefficient officers;
and if any law should prove burdensome, it can be repealed at the will
of the majority. So far as injustice is concerned, I have seen more of
it in Europe, individual rights were concerned, than I ever saw in
California. We have a public sentiment in favor of the right which can
not be shaken by corrupt, factious, and transitory influences. If our
governors and public men are not furnished with gilded palaces and
fine equipages, the labor of the toiling poor is not taxed to supply
them. If we are backward in the higher branches of literature and the
fine arts, there is scarcely a mechanic or a miner in the state who
does not know more of the history of his own country, possess a more
accurate knowledge of its institutions, read more of the current
intelligence of the day from all other countries--who, in short, is
not better versed in every branch of practical knowledge applicable to
the ordinary purposes of life, than the average of the most
intelligent classes in Great Britain or France. If we are deficient in
the dandyism of dress and the puppyism of manners, which so generally
pass for refinement and politeness on the Continent of Europe, there
is scarcely a boor among us who would not be hooted out of the lowest
society for the indifference, rudeness, and disrespect toward women,
which form the rule rather than the exception among the polished
nations of Europe. I have seen more absolute selfishness, coarseness,
and innate vulgarity under the guise of elegant manners, since my
arrival on this side of the water, than I ever saw in California under
any guise whatever. If that be civilization, I do not want to see it
prevail in our country. It would be difficult, indeed, to say in what
respect a comparison would not show a heavy balance in our favor.
Wealth is more equally diffused, fortune is more accessible to all,
the honors and emolument of political position are within the reach of
every man, the press is unrestrained in its freedom save in so far as
individual rights and the well-being of society may be concerned; no
class is oppressed by inequitable burdens, and none endowed with
exclusive privileges; a rich soil, a prolific mineral region, a
climate unequaled for its salubrity, and a promising future, afford
profitable occupation, health, and happiness to the whole community;
none need suffer unless from their own misconduct, or the visitation
of the Supreme Power by which all are ruled; and none need despond who
possess energy of character and the capacity to appreciate the many
blessings bestowed upon them. What nation in Europe possesses a future
at all, much less such a future as that which lies before us? Russia
may improve and prosper to a certain extent; beyond that, no human eye
can discern the glimmerings of a higher and more enlarged
civilization. England has reached her culminating point. The States of
Germany--what future have they? Alas! the past and the present must
answer. France--where is her future? Another revolution--another
emperor--another and another bloody history of revolutions,
barricades, kings, emperors, and demagogues, reaching, so far as human
eye can penetrate, through the dim vistas of all time to come. If, on
the one side, we see the type of human perfection and the maturity of
all worldly knowledge, and if we see on the other only the presumption
that springs from ignorance, want of cultivation, or want of reverence
for the example of others, then I earnestly pray that we may forever
remain in our present benighted condition, or, if we advance at all,
that it may not be in the direction taken by any of the governments of
Europe. As our present is unlike theirs, so I trust may be our future.
CHAPTER XVIII.
A BOND OF SYMPATHY.
The Russians, doubtless, have a natural appetite for tobacco, in
common with all races of mankind, whether Digger Indians, Caffirs,
Hindoos, Persians, Turks, Americans, or Dutchmen; for I never yet have
met with a people who did not take to the glorious weed, in some shape
or other, as naturally as a babe to its mother's breast. _Vodka_, or
native brandy, is their favorite beverage, when they can get it. In
that respect, too, they share a very common attribute of humanity--a
passion for strong drinks. Nevertheless, although the love of
intoxicating liquors is pretty general in Russia, the habit of smoking
which usually accompanies it is not so common as in the more southern
parts of Europe. A reason for this may be found in the prohibitions
established by the government against the general use of tobacco. It
is true, any person who pleases may enjoy this luxury, but by a rigid
ukase of the emperor the restrictions amount very nearly to an
absolute prohibition, so far as the common people are concerned.
Smoking is prohibited in the streets of every town and city throughout
the empire, and any infraction of the law in this respect, whether by
a native or foreigner, is visited by a heavy penalty. I hear of
several instances in St. Petersburg and Moscow of arrests by the
police for violations of the imperial decree. The reason given by the
Russians themselves for this despotic regulation is, that the cities
being built mostly of wood, extensive and disastrous conflagrations
have arisen from carelessness in street-smoking. It is difficult to
see how the risk is lessened in this way, for the prohibition does not
extend to smoking within doors. A carpenter may indulge his propensity
for cigars over a pile of shavings, provided it be in his workshop,
but he must not carry a lighted cigar in his mouth on any of the
public thoroughfares. The true reason perhaps is, that the emperor
considers it a useless and expensive habit, and thus makes use of his
imperial power to discountenance it, as far as practicable, among his
subjects. They may drink _vodka_ if they please, because that only
burns their insides out; but they must not smoke cigars, as a general
rule, because that impairs their moral perceptions. Hence cigars are
not permitted to be sold at any of the tobacco-shops in packages of
less than ten. Few of the lower classes ever save up money enough to
buy ten cigars at a time, so that if they desire to smoke they must go
to a cheap groggery and indulge in cheap cigaritos. Owing to the want
of opportunity, therefore, smoking is not a national characteristic,
as in Germany and the United States.
This, I must confess, gave me a rather gloomy impression of Russia,
and accounted in some measure for the grave and uncongenial aspect of
the people. One always likes to find some bond of sympathy between
himself and the inhabitants of the country through which he travels. I
remember reading somewhere of a Scotchman who had occasion to visit
the United States on business connected with an establishment in
Glasgow. He was disgusted with the manners and customs of the people;
had no faith in their capacity for business; found nothing to approve;
considered them vulgar, impertinent, irresponsible, and irreligious;
and finally was about to take his departure with these unfavorable
views, when he discovered, from some practical experience, that they
possessed, in addition to all these traits, wonderful shrewdness in
the art of swindling. New dodges that he had never dreamt of turned up
in the line of debits and credits; he was interested--delighted! A
familiar chord was touched. He retracted all he had said; formed the
most exalted opinion of the people; reluctantly returned to Glasgow,
and there made a fortune in the course of a few years! It is said that
he now swears by the eternal Yankee nation--the only oath he was ever
known to make use of--and expresses a desire to settle in the United
States, if he can find a suitable part of the country abounding in
fogs, rain, sleet, snow, and wind.
Somewhat akin to this is the affection with which a traveler in a
foreign land regards every mountain, tree, or flower that reminds him
of his own country. The most pleasant parts of my experiences of
mountain scenery are those that most resemble similar experiences at
home. Some suggestion or hint of a familiar scene has often caused me
to enjoy what would otherwise perhaps have attracted no particular
attention. I remember once, while traveling in Brazil, near the Falls
of Tejuca, some very pleasant scenes of early life came suddenly to
mind, without any thing that I could perceive at the moment to give
rise to such a train of thought. The aspect of the country was
different from any I had ever seen before; and it was not till I
discovered a bunch of violets close by my feet that I became aware
that it was a familiar perfume which had so mysteriously carried me
back to by-gone days. On another occasion, when at sea in the Indian
Ocean, after many dreary months of absence from home, I one day
accidentally found in the pocket of an old coat a paper of fine-cut
chewing tobacco. With what delight I grasped the glittering treasure
and applied it to my nose can only be conceived by a true lover of the
weed--I speak not of your voracious chewers, who masticate this
delectable narcotic as if it were food for the stomach instead of
nutriment for the soul, but of the genuine devotee, who can appreciate
the divinest essence, the rarest delicacies of tone and touch, the
most exquisite shades of sentiment in this wondrous weed. What a
luxury, after months of dreary longing--what an oasis in the desert of
life! No attar of roses could be sweeter than that paper of fine-cut.
I played with it--just titillating the nostrils--for hours before I
dared to descend to the coarse process of chewing. And then--ah
heavens! can mortal mixture ever equal that first chew again! How
bright and beautiful the world looked! What happy remembrances I
reveled in all that day, of serenades, and oyster-suppers, and pretty
girls, and a thousand other fascinations of early youth, all of which
grew out of a paper of fine-cut.
My experiences in Sweden were even more delightful in this respect
than in Russia. At Stockholm I saw drunken men every day, and at
Gottenburg it was the prevailing trait. The trouble was to see a man
who was not laboring under a pressure of bricks in his hat. On one
occasion I must have seen in the course of a single afternoon several
hundred reeling home in the highest possible condition of
ecstasy--either that, or the streets were so badly paved, and the
roads so devious and undulating, that they made people stagger to keep
straight. It was on the occasion of a fair, and may perhaps have been
an exception to the general rule. One thing is certain--it looked very
natural, and made me cotton wonderfully to these good people. There
was something really homelike in a reeling, staggering crowd--their
shouts and uproarious songs, their boozy faces and tobacco-stained
months. Every body seemed to be on a regular "bender." The only point
of difference between the Swedish and the California "bender" was in
the way the boys hugged and kissed the peasant-girls; but even in this
respect a similitude may sometimes be found in the vicinity of the
Indian Reservations, where I have seen Digger damsels treated quite as
affectionately. However, it was all right, so long as both parties
were willing. I rather liked the Gottenburg custom myself--as a
spectator, of course.
My last and perhaps most agreeable experience connected with the
pleasures of sympathy occurred in Norway, on the road from Christiania
to Trondhjem. With profound humiliation I make the confession that I
have never yet been able to eradicate a natural passion for tobacco.
Once, after reading the Rev. Dr. Cox's terrific book on the Horrors of
Tobacco, in which it was conclusively shown that a single drop of the
oil of this noxious weed put upon a cat's tongue killed the cat, I
resolved to master this vicious propensity for poison. For six months
I neither smoked, snuffed, nor chewed. But it came back somehow. Care,
I think, revived it, and every body knows that care, as well as
tobacco, killed a cat. A man might as well be killed one way as
another. We must all eat our peck of dirt, and in some shape or other
swallow our peck of poison. One learned gentleman proves that tobacco
is poison; another, that coffee and tea are equally fatal; another,
that meat is no better, and so on; our food and drink are pretty much
composed of poison, so that we are constantly killing ourselves, and
the result is, we die at last. Still, it is marvelous how long some
people survive all these deadly stimulants; how fat and hearty the
Germans are in spite of their meerschaums; how wonderfully the French
survive their strong coffee; how the Russians deluge their stomachs
with hot tea and yet still live; how the English get over their porter
and brown stout; and how long it takes the various poisons to which
the various nations of the earth are addicted to produce any sensible
diminution in the population. Sometimes I am inclined to think people
would die if they never ate a particle of any thing--either food or
poison. It seems to be one of those debts that we incur on coming into
the world, and can only discharge by going out of it.
All of which leads you gradually to the main point--my experience in
Norway. First, however, I must tell you that on my arrival in Europe,
not being able to find a plug of genuine Cavendish, I was forced to
satisfy the cravings of this morbid appetite by nibbling bad cigars.
But a new difficulty soon became manifest--there was not a spot in all
Germany where it was possible to get rid of a quid without attracting
undue attention. No man likes to be stared at as an outlaw against the
recognized decencies of life. One may smoke cigars under a lady's
nose, dress like a popinjay, or kiss his bearded friend in most
Continental cities, but he must not chew tobacco, because it is
considered a barbarous and filthy habit. He may guzzle beer, take
snuff, and wear dirty shirts, but if he would avoid reproach as an
unclean animal he must abandon his quids. Now, as a general rule, I
dislike to violate public sentiment, or inconvenience people with whom
I associate. If they are nonsensical and inconsistent in their
notions, I agree with them for the sake of harmony, if not for
politeness. Nothing pleases me better than to annoy an Englishman by
doing every thing that he most dislikes, because he makes it a point
to be disagreeable and unmannerly; carries his nationality wherever he
goes, and it does me good to furnish him with material for criticism.
Out of pure good nature, I meet him half way; chew and spit that he
may grumble, and put my legs over the back of the nearest chair to see
him enjoy a good hearty fit of disgust, and talk loud that he may find
material for ill-natured reflections on American manners--all of
which, I know, is exactly what obliges him. It affords him such
undeniable grounds for the depreciation of others, and the indulgence
of his own weak vanity!
In like manner I obliged my German friends, who, however, are
altogether different in their exactions, and only require Americans to
drop all their uncivilized habits, and become like themselves--quiet,
decent, and respectable old fogies. Therefore I obeyed the laws,
doffed my savage California costume, quit whisky, took to beer,
avoided all passages of tenderness toward the female sex, and herded
mostly with men. For a time, however, I held on to my beloved quid of
cigar. It was such a solace in the midst of all these privations!
But, alas! I had to give that up too; there was not a spot in all
Germany suitable for the purpose of expectoration! The floors of the
houses are so dreadfully clean--not a piece of carpet bigger than a
rug to sit upon; the porcelain stoves so inaccessible; the windows
always shut; every nook and corner blazing with little ornaments; the
lady of the house so severely conscious of every movement; even the
little earthen pans near the stove, filled with white sand nicely
smoothed over to represent salt-cellars--the ostensible spittoons of
the establishment--staring one in the face with a cold, steady gaze
amounting to a positive prohibition--no, the thing was impossible! I
saw plainly that a good, old-fashioned squirt of tobacco-juice would
ruin such a country as this, where every room in every house was
inimical to the habit, and every speck of ground throughout the length
and breadth of the land adapted to some useful or ornamental purpose.
Why, sir, I assure you that in the little duchy of Nassau--where it is
said the grand-duke is unable to exercise his soldiers at
target-shooting without obtaining permission to place the target in
some neighboring state--I found the garden-walks and public roads so
fearfully clean, every leaf and twig being swept up daily, and
preserved to manure the duchy, that during a pedestrian tour of three
days I was absolutely ashamed to spit any where. There was no possible
chance of doing it without expunging a soldier or a policeman, or
disfiguring the entire province. The result was, between
tobacco-juice, salt water, iron water, sulphur water, soda-water, and
all other sorts of water that came out of the earth from Brunnens of
Nassau, I got home as thin as a snake, and was forced to deny myself
even the poor consolation of a Frankfort cigar. So matters went on for
nearly a year. I became a morose and melancholy man. This will account
for all the bitter and ill-natured things I said of the Germans in
some of my sketches, every word of which I now retract.
But to come to the point of the narrative. In the due course of a
vagabond life, after visiting Russia and Sweden, I found myself one
day on the road from Lillehammer to the Dorre Fjeld in Norway. I sat
in a little cariole--an old peasant behind. The scenery was sublime.
Poetry crept over my inmost soul. The old man leaned over and said
something. Great heavens! What a combination of luxuries! His breath
smelled of whisky and tobacco. I was enchanted. I turned and gazed
fondly and affectionately in his withered old face. Two streams of
rich juice coursed down his furrowed chin. His leathery and wrinkled
mouth was besmeared with the precious fluid; his eyes rolled foolishly
in his head; he hung on to the cariole with a trembling and unsteady
hand; a delicious odor pervaded the entire man. I saw that he was a
congenial soul--cottoned to him at once--grasped him by the
hand--swore he was the first civilized human I had met in all my
travels through Europe--and called upon him, in the name of the great
American brotherhood of chewers, to pass me a bite of his tobacco.
From that moment we were the best of friends. The old man dived into
the depths of a greasy pocket, pulled out a roll of black pigtail, and
with joy beaming from every feature, saw me tear from it many a goodly
mouthful. We talked--he in Norwegian, I in a mixture of German and
English; we chewed; we spat; we laughed and joked; we forgot all the
discrepancies of age, nativity, condition, and future prospects; in
short, we were brothers, by the sublime and potent free-masonry of
tobacco. All that day my senses were entranced. I saw nothing but
familiar faces, gulches, cañons, bar-rooms, and boozy stage-drivers;
smelt nothing but whisky and tobacco in every flower by the wayside;
aspired to nothing but Congress and the suffrages of my
fellow-citizens. I was once again in my own, my beloved California.
"Such is the patriot's boast, where'er we roam,
His first, best country ever is at home."
CHAPTER XIX.
CIVILIZATION IN RUSSIA.
It may be a little startling to set out with the general proposition
that Russia is not only very far from being a civilized country, but
that it never can be one in the highest sense of the term. The remark
of Peter the Great, that distance was the only serious obstacle to be
overcome in the civilization of Russia, was such as might well be made
by a monarch of iron will and unparalleled energy, at whose bidding a
great city arose out of the swamps of Courland, where Nature never
intended a city to stand. But the remark is not true in point of fact.
Distance can be annihilated, or nearly so; and although Peter the
Great was probably aware of that fact, he might well have reasoned
that facility of intercommunication is not so much the cause as the
result of civilization. The wilderness may be made to blossom as the
rose through human agency, but it can only be done by divine
permission. I think that permission has been withheld in the case of a
very considerable portion of Russia. No human power can successfully
contend against the depressing influences of a climate scarcely
paralleled for its rigor. Where there are four months of a summer, to
which the scorching heats of Africa can scarcely bear a comparison,
and from six to eight months of a polar winter, it is utterly
impossible that the moral and intellectual faculties of man can be
brought to the highest degree of perfection. There must, of course,
always be exceptions to every general rule; but even in the dark and
bloody history of Russia we find that the exceptions of superior
intelligence and enlightenment have been chiefly confined to those who
availed themselves of the advantages afforded by more temperate
climes. Peter himself, the greatest of the Czars, and certainly the
most gifted of his race in point of intellect, perfected his education
in other countries, and in all his grand enterprises of improvement
availed himself of the intellect and experience of other races. Every
important improvement introduced into Russia during his reign was the
product of some other country, executed under foreign supervision.
This, perhaps, more than any thing else, may be said to afford the
most striking evidence of the enlarged and progressive character of
his mind. Yet the very same practice has been followed to a greater or
less extent by all his successors, and still, with the exception of a
railroad built by Americans, a telegraph system, a few French
fashions, and a movement professing to have for its object the
emancipation of the serfs, the country, beyond the limits of the
sea-port districts and those parts bordering on the States of Germany,
has advanced but little toward civilization since the reign of Peter.
With such a vast extent of territory, and such a variety of climates
as it must necessarily embrace, it may seem rather a broad assertion
to say that climate can be any obstacle to Russian civilization; but
let us glance for a moment at the general character of the country.
Between the sixtieth and seventy-eighth degrees of north latitude,
embracing a considerable portion of European and Asiatic Russia, the
winters are exceedingly long and severe, the summers so short that but
little dependence can be placed upon crops. The greater part of this
region consists of lakes, swamps, forests of pine, and extensive and
barren plains. The mines of Siberia may be regarded as the most
valuable feature in this desolate region. The production of flax and
hemp in the province of Petersburg, and the lumber products of the
forests which are accessible to the capital, give some importance to
such portions as border on the southern and European limit of this
great belt; but its general features are opposed to agricultural
progress. Whatever of civilization can exist within it must be of
forced growth, and be maintained under the most adverse circumstances.
South of this, between the fifty-fifth and sixtieth degrees of
latitude, comes a still wider and more extensive region, comprising
St. Petersburg, Riga, Moscow, Smolensk, and a portion of Irkutsk and
Nijni Novgorod. Here the summers are longer and the winters not quite
so severe; but a large portion of the country consists of forests,
sterile plains, and extensive marshes, and much of it is entirely
unfit for cultivation. The European portions are well settled, and
corn, flax, and hemp are produced wherever the land is available, and
large bands of cattle roam over many parts of the country. In its
general aspect, however, considering the duration and severity of the
winters, and the large proportion of unavailable lands, I do not think
it can ever become very productive in an agricultural point of view.
Between fifty and fifty-five degrees latitude, embracing the valley of
the Volga, is a more favored region, abounding in fertile lands, and
the summers are longer, but the winters are still severe, especially
in the eastern portions. From latitude forty-three to fifty, embracing
portions of Kief, the Caucasus, and other southern possessions of the
empire, the winters are comparatively temperate, and the summers warm
and long; but here, again, a great portion of this country consists of
mountains, arid plains, and deserts, and it is subject to extreme and
terrible droughts. Here is a vast extent of territory, comprising
about one hundred and sixty-five degrees of longitude and thirty-five
of latitude, which contains within its limits a greater variety of bad
climates, and a greater amount of land unavailable for any purposes of
human life, than any equal compass of territory upon the globe, if we
except Africa, which is at least doubtful. Within the limits of this
vast, and, for the most part, inhospitable region, we find nearly all
the races who, as far back as the history of mankind dates, have been
the most addicted to predatory wars, and the indulgence of every
savage propensity growing out of an untamable nature--Tartars,
Cossacks, gipsies, Turks, Circassians, Georgians, etc., and the
Russians proper, whose wild Sclavonic blood contains very nearly all
the vices and virtues that circulate through the veins of all these
races, besides many enterprising and unscrupulous traits of character
to which the inferior tribes could never aspire. Here we have a mixed
population, estimated in 1856 at seventy-one millions, including North
American possessions and tributary tribes, a great part of it composed
of totally incongruous elements, and with a variety of religions,
embracing about nine millions of Roman, Armenian, and irregular Greek
Catholics, Lutherans, Mohammedans, Israelites, and Buddhists--the
national creed being the Greco-Russe, which, it is estimated, is
professed by about fifty millions of the inhabitants, including, of
course, infants and young children, and many others who know nothing
about it. To keep all these incongruous elements in order, and provide
against foreign invasion, requires a standing army of 577,859 troops
"for grand operations," as the last almanac expresses it, besides
various _corps de reserve_, and a navy of 186 from steamers, 41 large
sailing vessels, and numerous gun-boats and smaller vessels, in the
Baltic, the Black Sea, the Caspian Sea, the White Sea, and the Sea of
Azof. More than seven eighths of these are frozen up and totally
unavailable for six months every year. It is estimated that, after
allowing for the forces necessary to protect the home possessions of
the empire, of which Russian Poland is the most troublesome, the
number of troops that can be brought into active offensive operation
does not, under ordinary circumstances, exceed two hundred thousand
men, and it must be obvious, considering that Russia has but little
external sea-board, and must submit to the rigors of a climate which
locks up the best part of her navy at least half of every year, that
she can never attain any great strength as a naval power. I am
inclined to believe, therefore, that while this great nation, or
combination of nations, is, from the very nature of its climate and
topography, almost impregnable to foreign invasion, it can never
become a very formidable power at any great distance from home; and
there are considerations connected with its form of government, and
the difficulty or impracticability of changing it, which, in my
opinion, forms an insuperable obstacle to the education of the people,
and such general dissemination of intelligence among the masses as
will entitle them to take the highest rank among civilized nations.
Nor does the history of Russia during past ages afford much
encouragement for a different view of the future. Democracy existed
for several centuries before the country became subject to despotic
rule, and from the ninth to the fifteenth century the aristocracy
possessed no hereditary privileges; the offices of state were
accessible to all, and the peasantry enjoyed personal liberty. It was
not until the reign of Peter the Great--the high-priest of
civilization--that the serfs became absolute slaves subject to sale,
with or without the lands upon which they lived. In respect to
political liberty, there has been little, if any advance since the
reign of the Empress Catherine, who accorded some elective privileges
to certain classes of her subjects in the provinces, and reduced the
administration of the laws to something like a system. The absurd
pretense of Alexander I. in according to the Senate the right of
remonstrating against imperial decrees is perfectly in keeping with
all grants of power made by the sovereigns of Russia to their
subjects. There is not, and can not be in the nature of things, a
limited despotism. As soon as the subjects possess constitutional
rights at all binding upon the supreme authority, it becomes another
form of government. The great difficulty in Russia is, that the
sovereign can not divest himself of any substantial part of his power
without adding to that of the nobles and the aristocracy, who are
already, by birth, position, and instinct, the class most to be
feared, and most inimical to the process of freedom. It is not
altogether the ignorance of the masses, therefore, that forms an
insuperable barrier to the introduction of more liberal institutions,
but the wealth, intelligence, and influence of the higher classes, who
neither toil nor spin, but derive their support from the labor of the
masses whom they hold in subjection. It is natural enough they should
oppose every reform tending to elevate these subordinate classes upon
whom they are dependent for all the powers and luxuries of their
position. Admitting that the present emperor may have a leaning toward
free institutions, and possibly contemplate educating forty or fifty
millions of his subjects to run him into the Presidency of Russia, it
is obvious that the path is very thorny, and that the position will be
well earned if ever he gets there. But these acts of sovereign
condescension, although they read very well in newspapers, and serve
to entertain mankind with vague ideas of the progress of freedom, are
generally the essence of an intense egotism, and amount to nothing
more than cunning devices to subvert what little of liberty their
subjects may be likely to extort from them by the maintenance of their
rights. I do not say that Alexander II. is governed by these motives,
but, having no faith in kings or despots of any kind, however good
they may be, I can see no reason why he should prove any better than
his predecessors. Upon this point let me tell you an anecdote. You are
aware, perhaps, that the Finns have a Constitution which allows them
to do what they please, provided it be pleasing to the emperor. Like
the ukase of Alexander I. to the Senate, and all similar grants of
authority, it is not worth the parchment upon which it is written, and
in its practical operation is no better than a practical joke. The
Finns, however, are a brave, simple minded, and rather superstitious
people, and take some pride in this Constitution. It is the ghost of
liberty at all events, and they indulge in the hope that some day or
other it will fish up the dead body. Not more than a few weeks ago, a
small party of these worthy people, on their way to Stockholm for
purposes of business or pleasure, were arrested and put in prison by
the Russian authorities on the supposition that they differed from the
emperor in his interpretation of this liberal Constitution, and were
going to Sweden to lay their grievances before their old compatriots.
It is quite possible that this was true. I heard complaints made when
I was in Helsingfors that there was quite a difference of opinion on
the subject. But it is a marvel how they could misunderstand their
right under the Constitution, when there is a strong military force
stationed at the principal cities of Finland to make it intelligible.
So thought the emperor or his subordinates, and put them in jail to
give them light. The point in the transaction which strikes me most
forcibly is, that a power like that of Russia, after having wrested
the province of Finland from Sweden, with an army and navy far
inferior to what she now possesses, should be afraid that a handful of
Finns should tell a pitiful tale to the King of Sweden, and prevail
upon him to take their country back again. If this be the freedom
granted under the free Constitution of Finland, the restraints upon
personal liberty must be pretty stringent in dependencies where no
Constitutions at all exist.
By a natural law, the waves of despotism gather strength and volume as
they spread from the central power. It is scarcely an exaggeration to
say that the Autocrat of Russia is the least despotic of all the
despots in authority. The landed proprietors in the remote provinces
too often rule their dependents with an iron rod, and the strong arm
of the supreme authority is more frequently exercised in the
protection than in the oppression of the lower classes. The tribunals
of justice in these districts are corrupt, and the laws, as they are
administered by the subordinate officers of the government, afford but
little chance of justice to the ignorant masses. The landed
proprietors are subjected to various exactments and oppressions from
the governors, and these again are at the mercy of the various
colleges or departments above them, and so on up to the imperial
council and imperial presence. Each class or grade becomes
independent, despotic, and corrupt in proportion as they recede from
the central authority, having a greater latitude of power, and being
less apprehensive of punishment for its abuse. In truth, the nobles
and aristocracy are the immediate oppressors of the ignorant masses,
who are taught to regard them as demigods, and bow down before them in
slavish abasement. Now and then, in extreme cases, where the autocrat
discovers abuses which threaten to impair his authority, he sends some
of these aspiring gentlemen on a tour of pleasure to Siberia, and thus
practically demonstrates that there is a ruling power in the land. As
all authority emanates from him, and all responsibility rests with
him, so all justice, liberality, fair dealing, and humanity are apt to
find in a good sovereign, under such a system, their best friend and
most conscientious supporter. The success of his government, the
prosperity and happiness of his people, even the perpetuity of the
entire political system, depend upon the judicious and equitable use
which he makes of his power. There are limits to human forbearance, as
sovereigns have discovered by this time. The Czar is but a man, a mere
mortal, after all, and can only hold his authority through the
consent, indifference, or ignorance of his subjects; but should he
oppress them by extraordinary punishments or exactions, or withdraw
from them his protection against the petty tyranny of his
subordinates, he would find, sooner or later, that the most degraded
can be aroused to resentment. It is the belief on the part of the
peasantry, of which the population of Russia is in so large a part
formed, that the emperor is their friend--that he does not willingly
or unnecessarily deprive them of their liberties. This tends to keep
them in subjection. Indeed, they have but faint notions of liberty, if
any at all, born as they are to a condition of servitude, and reared
in abject submission to the governing authorities. They are generally
well satisfied if they can get enough to eat; and, when they are not
subjected to cruel and unusual abuses, are comparatively happy.
The unreasonable assumptions of power on the part of their immediate
governing authorities present a trait common to mankind. We know from
experience in our own country that the negro-driver on a Southern
plantation--a slave selected from slaves--is often more tyrannical in
the use of authority than the overseer or owner. We know that there
are hard and unfeeling overseers on many plantations, where the owner
is comparatively mild and humane. So far as he knows any thing of the
details of his own affairs, his natural disposition accords with his
interest, and he is favorable to the kind treatment of his slaves. But
he can not permit them to become intelligent beings. They may study
all the mechanical arts which may be useful to him--become
blacksmiths, carpenters, or machinists, but they must not learn that
they are held in servitude, and that the Almighty has given him no
natural right to live upon their earnings, or enjoy his pleasure or
power at the expense of their labor and their freedom. The same
condition of things, with some variation, of course, arising from
differences of climate and races, exists in Russia, and the results
are not altogether dissimilar. We find idleness, lack of principle,
overbearing manners, ignorance, and sensualism a very common
characteristic of the superior classes, mingled though it may be with
a show of fine manners, and such trivial and superficial
accomplishments as may be obtained without much labor. It is a great
negro plantation on a large scale, in which the gradation of powers
has a depressing tendency, causing them to increase in rigor as they
descend, like a stone dropped from a height, which at first might be
caught in the open hand, but soon acquires force enough to brain an
ox.
One of the effects of the strong coercive powers of the government is
perceptible in this, that the greatest latitude prevails in every
thing that does not interfere with the maintenance of political
authority; and although it is difficult, in such a country, to find
much that comes within that category, occasional exceptions may be
found. Thus drunkenness, debauchery, indecency, and reckless,
prodigal, and filthy habits, are but little regarded, while the
slightest approach to the acquisition of a liberal education, or the
expression of liberal opinions on any subject connected with public
polity, is rigidly prohibited. Most of the English newspapers are
excluded from the empire, although if admitted they would have but few
general readers among the Russians--certainly not many among the
middle or lower classes. No publication on political economy, no work
of any kind relating to the science of government or the natural
rights of man; nothing, in short, calculated to impair the faith of
the people in the necessity of their political servitude, is permitted
to enter the country without a most careful examination. A rigid
censorship is exercised over the press, the libraries, the public
colleges, the schools, and all institutions having in view the
education of the people and the dissemination of intelligence. The
Censorial Bureau is in itself an important branch of the government,
having its representatives diffused throughout every province, in
every public institution, and even extending its ramifications into
the sacred realms of private life; for it is a well-known fact that a
family can not employ a private tutor whose antecedents and political
proclivities have not undergone the scrutiny and received the official
sanction of the censorial authorities.
How can a country, under such circumstances, be expected to take a
high rank among the enlightened nations of the earth? The very germ of
its existence is founded in the suppression of intelligence. It may
enjoy a limited advancement, but there can be no great progress in any
direction which does not tend at the same time to the subversion of a
despotic rule. Even the theatres, operas, _cafés_, and all places of
public amusement, are under the same rigid surveillance. No play can
be performed, no opera given, no _café_ opened, no garden amusements
offered to the public, unless under the supervision and with the
sanction of the censorial authorities. In all well-regulated
communities there must be, of course, some local or municipal
restrictions respecting popular amusements, based upon a regard for
public morals, but in this case the question of morality is not taken
into much account. Provided there is nothing politically objectionable
in the performance, and it has no tendency to make the people better
acquainted with the rottenness of courts, the selfishness, wickedness,
and insincerity of men in authority, and their own rights as human
beings--provided the theme be _Jishn za Zara_--"Your life for your
Czar," or the exhibition a voluptuous display--provided it be merely a
matter of abject adulation or fashionable sensation, the most
fastidious censor can find no fault with it. What, then, does the
education of the masses amount to? We read of lectures for the
diffusion of knowledge among the people; of colleges for young men; of
various institutions of learning; of a liberal system of common
schools for the poor. All this is very well in its way. A little light
is better than none when the road is crooked, and the country abounds
in ruts and deep pitfalls. But the lights shed by these institutions
are much obscured by the official glasses through which they shine.
The building of fortifications; the manufacture of gunpowder; the use
of guns and swords; the beauties of rhetoric abounding in the drill
manual; the eloquence of batteries and broadsides; the poetry of
ditching and draining; the ethics of primary obedience to the
authorities, and afterward to God and reason; all that pertains to
rapine, bloodshed, and wholesale murder--the noble art of mutilating
men in the most effective manner, and the best method of cutting them
up or putting them together again when that is done; the horrid sin of
using one's own lights on any internal problem of right or wrong,
religion or public policy, when the emperor, in the plenitude of his
generosity, furnishes light enough out of his individual head for
sixty-five millions of people--these are the principal themes upon
which the intellects of the rising generation of Russia are nourished.
In the primary schools a select and authorized few are taught reading,
writing, and arithmetic, but they seldom get much farther, and not
always that far, before subordinate positions in the army or navy are
found for them. Their education is indeed very limited, and may be set
down as an exception to the general ignorance.
It will thus be seen that the whole system of education has but one
object in view, the maintenance of a military despotism. In this it
would scarcely be reasonable to search for cause of complaint.
Doubtless the acquisition of knowledge is encouraged as far as may be
consistent with public security and public peace. But it is obvious
that under such a system these people can never emerge from their
condition of semi-barbarism. They must continue behind the spirit of
the age in all that pertains to the highest order of civilization.
Science, in a limited sense, may find a few votaries; the arts may be
cultivated to a certain degree; a feeble school of literature may
attain the eminence of a national feature; but there can be no general
expansion of the intellectual faculties, no enlarged and comprehensive
views of life and of human affairs. Whatever these people do must be
subservient to military rule; beyond that there can be little advance
save in what is palpable to the grosser senses, or what panders to the
savagery of their nature. A statesman or a philosopher, with
independence enough to think and speak the truth if his views differed
from those of the constituted authorities, would be a very dangerous
character, and be very apt to pursue his career, in company with all
who have hitherto aspired to distinction in that way, beyond the
confines of Siberia. Russia may produce many Karasmins to write
glowing histories of her wars and conquests, but her Burkes, her
Pitts, and her Foxes will be few, and her Shakspeares and her Bacons
fewer still. Her Pascal's Reflections will be tinged with Siberian
horrors; her Young's Night Thoughts will be of the dancing damsels of
St. Petersburg; her Vicars of Wakefield will abound in the genial
humor of devils and dragons, saints and tortures; and the wit of her
Sidney Smiths will have a crack of the knout about it, skinning men's
back's rather than their backslidings; effective only when it draws
human blood, and best approved by the censors when it strikes at human
freedom.
We find the results of such a system strongly marked upon the general
character. While equals are jealous of each other, inferiors are
slavish and superiors tyrannical. It is often the case that
overbearing manners and abject humility are centred in the same class
or person. Thus the Camarilla are overbearing to the bureaucracy, the
bureaucracy to the provincial nobility, and the provincial nobility to
the inferior classes. As I said before, it is a sliding-scale of
despotism. The worst feature of it is seen in the treatment of women.
Among the better classes conventionality has, doubtless, somewhat
meliorated their condition. Absolute physical cruelty would be,
perhaps, a violation of etiquette and good breeding; but neglect,
selfishness, innate coarseness of thought, and a general want of
chivalrous appreciation, are too common in the treatment of Russian
women not to strike the most casual observer. Certainly the
impressions of one who has been taught from infancy to regard the
gentler sex as entitled to the most profound respect and chivalrous
devotion--to look upon them as beings of a more delicate essence than
man, yet infinitely superior in those moral attributes which rise so
high above intellect or physical power--are not favorable to the
assumptions of Russian civilization. Yet, since the condition of woman
is but little better in any part of Europe, it may be that this is one
of the fashions imported from France or Germany, and since these two
claim to be the most polite and cultivated nations in existence, it is
even possible that the Americans--a rude people, who have not yet had
time to polish their manners or perfect their customs--may be mistaken
in their estimate of the ladies, and will, some day or other, become
more Europeanized.
But, in all fairness, if the Russians be a little uncouth in their
way, they possess, like bears, a wonderful aptness in learning to
dance; if the brutal element is strong in their nature, so also is the
capacity to acquire frivolous and meretricious accomplishments. Like
all races in which the savage naturally predominates, they delight in
the glitter of personal decoration, the allurements of music, dancing,
and the gambling-table, and all the luxuries of idleness and sensuous
folly--traits which they share pretty generally with the rest of
mankind. Tropical gardens, where the thermometer is twenty degrees
below zero; feasts and frolics that in a single night may leave them
beggars for life; military shows; the smoke and carnage of battle; the
worship of their saints and Czars--these are their chief pleasures and
most genial occupations.
But, with all this folly and prodigality, there is really a great deal
of native generosity in the Russian character. Liberal to a fault in
every thing but the affairs of government, they freely bestow their
wealth upon charitable institutions, and, whether rich or poor, are
ever ready to extend the hand of relief to the distresses of their
fellow-creatures. It is rarely they hoard their gains. There are few
who do not live up to the full measure of their incomes, and most of
them very far beyond. Whether they spend their means for good or for
evil, they are at least free from the groveling sin of stinginess. I
never met more than one stingy Russian to my knowledge; but let him
go. He reaped his reward in the dislike of all who knew him. Toward
each other, even the beggars are liberal. There is nothing little or
contemptible in the Russian character. Overbearing and despotic they
may be; deficient in the gentler traits which grace a more cultivated
people; but meanness is not one of their failings. In this they
present a striking contrast to a large and influential portion of
their North German neighbors, for whose sordid souls Beelzebub might
search in vain through the desert wastes that lie upon the little end
of a cambric needle.
In some respects the Russians evince a more enlarged appreciation of
the world's progress than many of their European neighbors. They have
no fixed prejudices against mechanical improvements of any kind. Quick
to appreciate every advance in the useful arts, they are ever ready to
accept and put in practical operation whatever they see in other
countries better than the product of their own. Thus they adopt
English and American machinery, railways, telegraphs, improvements in
artillery, and whatever else they deem beneficial, or calculated to
augment their prosperity and power as a nation. While in Germany it
would be almost an impossibility to introduce the commonest and most
obvious improvement in the mechanical arts--if we except railways and
telegraphs, which have become a military and political necessity,
growing out of the progress of neighboring powers--while many of their
fabrics are still made by hand, and their mints, presses, and
fire-engines are of almost primeval clumsiness, the Russians eagerly
grasp at all novelties, and are wonderfully quick in the comprehension
of their uses and advantages. A similar comparison might be made in
reference to the freedom of internal trade, and the encouragement
given to every industrial pursuit among the people, being the exact
reverse of the policy pursued by the German governments. Thus, while
we find them backward in the refinements of literature and
intellectual culture, it is beyond doubt that they possess wonderful
natural capacity to learn. They lack steadiness and perseverance, and
are not always governed by the best motives; but in boldness of
spirit, disregard of narrow prejudice, ability to conceive and
execute what they desire to accomplish, they have few equals and no
superiors. Combined with these admirable traits, their wild Sclavonic
blood abounds in elements which, upon great occasions, arise to the
eminence of a sublime heroism. Brave and patriotic, devoted to their
country and their religion, we search the pages of history in vain for
a parallel to their sacrifices in the defense of both. Not even the
wars of the Greeks and Romans can produce such an example of heroic
devotion to the maintenance of national integrity as the burning of
Moscow. When an entire people, devoted to their religion, gave up
their churches and their shrines to the devouring element; when
princes and nobles placed the burning brands to their palaces; when
bankers, merchants, and tradesmen freely yielded up their hard-earned
gains; when women and children joined the great work of destruction to
deliver their country from the hands of a ruthless invader, it may
well be said of that sublime flame--
"Thou stand'st alone unrivall'd, till the fire,
To come, in which all empires shall expire."
Truly, when we glance back at the national career of the Russians,
they can not but strike us as a wonderful people. While we must
condemn their cruelty and rapacity; while we can see nothing to excuse
in their ferocious persecution of the Turks; while the greater part of
their history is a bloody record of injustice to weaker nations, we
can not but admire their indomitable courage, their intense and
unalterable attachment to their brave old Czars, and their sublime
devotion to their religion and their nationality.
CHAPTER XX.
PASSAGE TO REVEL.
It was not without a feeling of regret that I took my departure from
St. Petersburg. Short as my visit to Russia had been, it was full of
interest. Not a single day had been idly or unprofitably spent.
Indeed, I know of no country that presents so many attractions to the
traveler who takes pleasure in novelties of character and
peculiarities of manners and customs. The lovers of picturesque
scenery will find little to gratify his taste in a mere railroad
excursion to Moscow; but with ample time and means at his disposal, a
journey to the Ural Mountains, or a voyage down the Volga to the
Caspian Sea, would doubtless be replete with interest. For my part,
much as I enjoy the natural beauties of a country through which I
travel, they never afford me as much pleasure as the study of a
peculiar race of people. Mere scenery, however beautiful, becomes
monotonous, unless it be associated with something that gives it a
varied and striking human interest. The mountains and lakes of
Scotland derive their chief attractions from the wild legends of
romance and chivalry so inseparably connected with them; and
Switzerland would be but a dreary desert of glaciers without its
history. In Russia, Nature has been less prodigal in her gifts; and
the real interest of the country centres in its public institutions,
the religious observances of the people, and the progress of
civilization under a despotic system of government. Of these I have
endeavored to give you such impressions as may be derived from a
sojourn of a few weeks in Moscow and St. Petersburg--necessarily
imperfect and superficial, but I trust not altogether destitute of
amusing features.
On a pleasant morning in August, I called for my "rechnung" at the
German gasthaus on the Wasseli-Ostrow. The bill was complicated in
proportion to its length. There was an extra charge of fifteen kopeks
a day for the room over and above the amount originally specified.
That was conscientious cheating, so I made no complaint. Then there
was a charge for two candles when I saw but one, and always went to
bed by daylight. That was customary cheating, and could not be
disputed. Next came an item for beefsteaks, when, to the best of my
knowledge and belief, nothing but veal cutlets, which were also duly
specified, ever passed my lips in any part of Russia. Upon that I
ventured a remonstrance, but gave in on the assurance that it was
Russian beefsteak. I was too glad to have any ground for believing
that it was not Russian dog. Next came an item for police commissions.
All that work I had done myself, and therefore was entitled to demur.
It appeared that a man was kept for that purpose, and when he was not
employed he expected remuneration for the disappointment. Then there
was an item for domestic service, when the only service rendered was
to black my boots, for which I had already paid. No matter; it was
customary, so I gave in. Then came sundry bottles of wine. I never
drink wine. "But," said the proprietor, "it was on the table." Not
being able to dispute that, I abandoned the question of wine. Various
ices were in the bill. I had asked for a lump of ice in a glass of
water on several occasions, supposing it to be a common article in a
country on the edge of the Arctic circle, but for every lump of ice
the charge was ten kopeks. Upon this principle, I suppose they attach
an exorbitant value to thawed water during six months of the year,
when the Neva is a solid block of ice. I find that ice is an
uncommonly costly luxury in Northern Europe, where there is a great
deal of it. In Germany it is ranked with fresh water and other deadly
poisons; in Russia it costs too much for general use; and in Norway
and Sweden, where the snow-capped mountains are always in sight, the
people seem to be unacquainted with the use of iced water, or, indeed,
any other kind of water as a beverage in summer. They drink brandy and
schnapps to keep themselves cool. However, I got through the bill at
last, without loss of temper, being satisfied it was very reasonable
for St. Petersburg. Having paid for every article real and imaginary;
paid each servant individually for looking at me; then paid for
domestic services generally; paid the proprietor for speaking his
native language, which was German, and the commissioner for wearing a
brass band on his cap, and bowing several times as I passed out, the
whole matter was amicably concluded, and, with my knapsack on my back,
I wended my way down to the steam-boat landing of the Wasseli-Ostrow.
As I was about to step on board the Russian steamer bound for
Revel--an eager crowd of passengers pressing in on the plankway from
all sides--I was forcibly seized by the arm. Supposing it to be an
arrest for some unconscious violation of the police regulations, a
ghastly vision of Siberia flashed upon my mind as I turned to demand
an explanation. But it was not a policeman who arrested me--it was
only my friend, Herr Batz, the rope-maker, who, with a flushed face
and starting eyes, gazed at me. "Where are you going?" said he. "To
Revel," said I. Almost breathless from his struggle to get at me, he
forcibly pulled me aside from the crowd, drew me close up to him, and
in a hoarse whisper uttered these remarkable words: "_Hempf is up!_ It
took a rise yesterday--_Zweimal zwey macht vier, und sechsmal vier
macht vier und zwanzig! verstehen sie?_" "Gott im Himmel!" said I,
"you don't say so?" "_Ya, freilich!_" groaned Herr Batz, hoarsely:
"_Zwey tausent rubles! verstehen sie? Sechs und dreissig, und acht und
vierzig._" "Ya! ya!" said I, grasping him cordially by the hand, for I
was afraid the steamer would leave--"_Adjeu, mein Herr! adjeu!_" and I
darted away into the crowd. The last I saw of the unfortunate
rope-maker, he was standing on the quay, waving his red cotton
handkerchief at me. As the lines were cast loose, and the steamer
swung out into the river, he put both hands to his mouth, and shouted
out something which the confusion of sounds prevented me from hearing
distinctly. I was certain, however, that the last word that fell upon
my ear was "_hempf_!"
The Neva at this season of the year presents a most animated and
picturesque appearance. A little above the landing-place of the Baltic
steamers, a magnificent bridge connects the Wasseli-Ostrow with the
main part of the city, embracing the Winter Palace, the Admiralty, and
the Nevskoi, generally known as the Bolshaia, or Great Side. Below
this bridge, as far as the eye can reach in the direction of the Gulf
of Finland, the glittering waters of the Neva are alive with various
kinds of shipping--merchant vessels from all parts of the world;
fishing smacks from Finland and Riga; lumber vessels from Tornea;
wood-boats from the interior; Russian and Prussian steamers;
row-boats, skiffs, and fancy colored canoes, with crews and passengers
representing many nations of the earth, are in perpetual motion; and
while the sight is bewildered by the variety of moving objects, the
ears are confounded by the strange medley of languages.
Through this confused web of obstacles, the little steamer in which I
had taken passage worked her way cautiously and systematically,
catching a rope here and there for a sudden swing to the right or to
the left, stopping and backing from time to time, and feeling with her
nose for the narrow channels of the river, till she was fairly out of
danger, when, with a blast of the whistle and a heavy pressure of
steam, she dashed forth into the open waters of the gulf.
As we gradually receded, I turned to take a last look at the mighty
Venice of the North. The gold-covered domes of the churches, rising
high above the massive ranges of palaces, were glittering brilliantly
in the sunlight; the variegated shipping of the Neva was growing dim
in the distance; the masses of foliage that crowned the islands were
of tropical luxuriance, and the whole city, with its palaces,
fortifications, and churches, seemed to rest upon the surface of the
waters. It was a sight not soon to be forgotten. I turned toward the
dark and stern fortresses of Cronstadt, now breaking in strong outline
through the golden haze of the morning, and thought of the grim old
Czar who had thus battled with Nature, and planted a mighty city in
the wilderness; and thus musing, sighed to think that such a man
should have lacked the warmth divine which sheds the only true and
enduring lustre upon human greatness.
After the usual detention at Cronstadt for the examination of
passports, the steamer once more started on her way, and in a few
hours nothing was in sight save the shores of the gulf dim on the
horizon, and the sails of distant vessels looming up in the haze.
I now, for the first time, had leisure to look at my
fellow-passengers.
A Russian steamer during the pleasure season is a floating Babel.
Here, within the limits of a few dozen feet, were the representatives
of almost every nation from the Arctic circle to the tropics--Finns
and Swedes, Norwegians and Danes, Tartars and Russians, Poles and
Germans, Frenchmen and Englishmen, South Americans, and--I was going
to say North Americans, of which, however, I was the sole
representative.
It was a motley assemblage--a hodge-podge of humanity, a kind of
living pot-pourri of dirty faces and dirty shirts, military uniforms,
slouched hats, blowses, and big boots. There was a Russian general,
who always stood at the cabin door to show himself to the rest of the
passengers. I don't know for the life of me what he was angry about,
but his face wore a perpetual frown of indignation, scorn, and
contempt; his black brows were constitutionally knit; his eyes seemed
to be always trying to overpower and knock somebody under; his lips
were firmly compressed, and his mustaches stood out like a dagger on
each side, with the handles wrapped in a bundle of dirty hair under
his nose. So tight was his uniform around the body and neck that it
forced all the blood up into his face, and wouldn't let it get back
again; and it seemed a miracle that the veins in his forehead did not
burst and carry away the top of his head, brains and all. Opposite to
this great man, in an attitude of profound humility, stood his
liveried servant--a very gentlemanly-looking person, with an
intellectual baldness covering the entire top of his cranium. This
deferential individual wore a coat beautifully variegated before and
behind with gold lace; a pair of plush knee-breeches, white stockings,
and white kid gloves; and was continually engaged in bowing to the
great man, and otherwise anticipating his wants. When the great man
looked at a trunk, or a carpet sack, or any thing else in the line of
baggage or traveling equipments, the liveried servant bowed very low,
looked nervously about him, and then darted off and seized hold of the
article in question, gave it a pull or a push, put it down again,
looked nervously around him, hurried back and bowed again to his
august master, who by that time was generally looking in some other
direction with an air of great indifference--as much as to say that he
was accustomed to that species of homage, and did not attach any
particular value to it. The passengers regarded him with profound awe
and admiration, and seemed to be very much afraid he would, upon some
trifling provocation, draw his sword and attack them. I was
determined, if ever he undertook such a demonstration of authority as
that, to resent it with the true spirit of a Californian, and cast
about me for some weapon of personal defense, but saw nothing likely
to be available in an emergency of that kind except a small bucket of
slush, with which, however, it would be practicable to "douse his
glim." This great man, with his attendant, was bound for the sea-baths
of Revel, where he would doubtless soon be buffeting the waves like a
porpoise--or possibly, in virtue of the commanding powers vested in
him by nature and the Czar of Russia, would sit down by the sea-shore
like Hardicanute the Dane, and order the waves to retire.
Then there was an old lady and her three daughters who sat on the
camp-stools by the step-ladder; the same fat old lady, bedizened with
finery, and the same three young ladies, with strong features and
dismal dresses, which the traveler encounters all over the Continent
of Europe. The old lady was in a state of chronic agony lest the young
ladies should be forcibly seized and carried away by some daring youth
of the male sex; and the young ladies were conscious that such was the
general purpose of mankind, and that they were in imminent danger of
being preyed upon in that way, and, consequently, must always hold
down their heads and look at the seams in the deck upon the approach
of any gallant-looking cavalier with a handsome face and a fine
figure, to say nothing of the expressive tenderness of his eyes and
the gracefulness of his manner, and many other fascinating features in
the young gentleman's appearance, of which they could not be otherwise
than entirely unconscious, since they had not taken the slightest
notice of him, and never contemplated encouraging his advances. The
old lady was a very discreet and proper old lady, and the young ladies
were very discreet and proper young ladies, and they were going to the
baths of Revel after their last winter's campaign in the fashionable
circles of St. Petersburg; and any body could see at a glance that
they were of a distinguished and fashionable family, because they had
a courier and two lapdogs, and carried a coat of arms on their trunks
and bandboxes, and were taken with violent headaches soon after
leaving Cronstadt, and used smelling-salts.
Next was the man who belongs to no particular nation, speaks every
language, and knows every body--a shabby-genteel, middle-aged man, of
no ostensible occupation, but always occupied. "Sare," said he, "I
perceive you are an Englishman. I always very glad am to meet with
Englishmen. I two years spent in London." "Indeed!" said I; "you speak
English very well, considering you learned it in England!" "Yes,
sare--in London--I was in business there." "Mercantile?" said I. "No,
sare; I attended to mi-lor Granby's 'orses." "Oh! that indeed!" "Yes,
sare;" and so the conversation went on in a manner both entertaining
and instructive. In the course of it, I gathered that my
shabby-genteel friend was going to Revel to attend a 'orse-race.
Another conspicuous group on the deck soon after attracted my
attention--the hungry people. This group consisted of some six or
eight persons, male and female, of a very Jewish cast of features,
well-dressed and lively, evidently Germans, since they spoke in the
German language. Scarcely had the steamer cast loose from the quay
when they opened the pile of baskets, boxes, and packages by which
they were surrounded, and, taking out sundry loaves of bread, lumps of
cheese, sausages, and wine-bottles, began to eat and drink with a
voracity perfectly amazing. I was certain I had seen them a thousand
times before. Every feature was familiar; and even their
constitutional appetite was nothing new to me. I had never seen this
group, or their prototype, in any public conveyance, or in any part of
the world, without a feeling of envy at the extraordinary vigor of
their digestive functions. Here were pale, cadaverous-looking men, and
sallow women, who never stopped eating from morning till night, in
rough or calm weather, in sunshine or storm; ever hungry, ever
thirsty, ever cramming and guzzling with a degree of zest that the
sturdiest laborer in the field could never experience; and yet they
neither burst nor dropped down dead, nor suffered from sea-sickness.
Doubtless they had just breakfasted before they came aboard; but, to
make sure of it, they immediately breakfasted again. As soon as they
were through that, they lunched; then they dined; after dinner they
drank coffee and ate cakes; after coffee and cakes they lunched again;
then they ate a hearty supper, and after supper whetted their
appetites on tea and cakes; and before bedtime appeased the cravings
of hunger with a heavy meal of sausages, brown bread, and cheese,
which they washed down with several bottles of wine. I don't know how
many times they got up to eat in the night, but suppose it could not
have been more than twice or three times, since they were at it again
by daylight in the morning as vigorously as ever. I am inclined to
think that some people are physically so organized as to be insensible
to the difference between a pound of food and ten pounds, as others
are unconscious of the difference between wit and stupidity, sense and
nonsense; such, for instance, as the humorous group, who sit by the
companion-way, and keep themselves and every body around them in a
continued roar of laughter. It is good to be merry; but I must confess
it is not within the bounds of my capacity to discover a source of
merriment in such pranks of wit as these people enjoy. A young fellow
makes a face like an owl--every body roars laughing, the idea is so
exquisitely comical. Another pulls his comrades by the hair, and every
body shouts with uproarious merriment. One sly chap shoves another off
his seat and takes possession of it--a feat so humorous that the whole
crowd is convulsed. A bad orange, pitched across the deck, strikes an
elderly gentleman on the bald pate--well, I had to laugh at that
myself. By-and-by, a stout, florid young gentleman turns pale and
groans; three or four officious friends, with twinkling eyes, seize
him by the arms, and drag him over to the lee-scuppers, where he
manifests still more decided symptoms of sea-sickness. His friends
hold him, rub him, chafe him, and pat him on the back; one offers him
a meerschaum pipe to smoke; another, a bunch of cigars; a third, a
piece of fat meat; while a fourth tempts him with a bottle of some
wine, all of which is uncommon fun to every body but the unfortunate
victim. Thus the time passes away pleasantly enough, after all, taking
into view the variety of incidents and scenes which constantly occupy
the attention of a looker-on. I had taken a deck-passage for
cheapness, and made out to get through the night by bundling myself up
on a pile of baggage, and catching a few cat-naps whenever the noise
created by these lively young gentlemen would permit of such a feat.
By seven o'clock in the morning we were steering into the harbor of
Revel.
CHAPTER XXI.
REVEL AND HELSINGFORS.
Few cities within the limits of the Russian dominions possess greater
historic interest than Revel. Although its commerce is limited to a
few annual shipments of hemp, flax, and tallow, produced in the
province of Esthonia, and the importation of such articles of domestic
consumption as the peasants require, it occupies a prominent position
as a naval dépôt for Russian vessels of war, and is much frequented in
summer by the citizens of St. Petersburg as a bathing-place and
general resort of pleasure. A steamer leaves daily for Revel and
Helsingfors, which, during the bathing season, is crowded with
passengers, as in the case of my own trip, of which I have already
given you a sketch. The approach to the harbor, in the bright morning
sun, is exceedingly picturesque. Beyond the forest of masts and spars,
with gayly-colored flags and streamers spread to the breeze, rises a
group of ancient buildings on the rocky eminence called the Domberg,
comprising the castle, the residences of the governor and commandant,
and various palaces and quarters of the nobility, surrounded by Gothic
walls and strong fortifications. This ancient and picturesque pile has
been termed the Acropolis of Revel, though beyond the fact that it
overlooks the lower town and forms a prominent feature in the scenic
beauties of the place, it is difficult to determine in what respect it
can bear a comparison with the famous Acropolis of Athens. However, I
have observed that travelers find it convenient to discover
resemblances of this kind where none exist, as a means of rounding off
their descriptions; and since the Kremlin is styled the Acropolis of
Moscow, I see no reason why Revel should not enjoy the same sort of
classic association. It is to be hoped that when Russian travelers
visit San Francisco, they will, upon the principle adopted by tourists
in their country, do us the justice to designate Russian Hill as the
Acropolis of San Francisco; and should they visit Sacramento during
the existence of a flood, I have no doubt they can find a pile of
bricks or a whisky barrel sufficiently elevated above the general
level to merit the distinctive appellation of an Acropolis. Revel has
suffered more frequent changes of government, and passed through the
hands of a greater variety of rulers, than any city, perhaps, in the
whole of Northern Europe. In the twelfth and thirteenth centuries it
was a province of Denmark; subsequently it fell into the hands of the
Swedes, and in 1347 became a possession of the Livonian Knights, a
chivalrous and warlike order, who built castles, lived in a style of
great luxuriance, killed, robbed, and plundered the people of the
surrounding countries, and otherwise distinguished themselves as
gentlemen of the first families, not one of them having ever been
known to perform a day's useful labor in his life. Such, indeed, was
the heroic character of these doughty knights, that, having plunged
the whole country into ruin and distress, the peasants, driven to
desperation, rose upon them in 1560, and completely routed and
destroyed them, killing many, and compelling the remainder to seek
some other occupation. This was rough treatment for gentlemen, but it
happens from time to time in the course of history, and shows to what
trials chivalrous blood is exposed when it can't have its own way.
Finally Esthonia and Livonia fell into the hands of Charles II. of
Sweden, from whom they were wrested by Peter the Great. Since that
period these provinces have continued under the Russian dominion. From
the time of Peter to the reign of the present emperor, Revel has been
a favorite summer resort of the Czars. It has been rebuilt, patched,
fortified, and improved to such an extent that it now represents
almost every style of architecture known in Northern Europe since the
Middle Ages. The people partake of the same characteristics, being a
mixture of every Northern race by which the place has been inhabited
since the reign of Eric XIV. of Denmark. I spent some hours visiting
the churches and other objects of interest, a detailed description of
which would scarcely be practicable within the brief limits of a
letter. The Ritterschaftshaus, containing the armorial bearings of the
nobility, is a place of great historical interest; but I saw nothing
that afforded me so much amusement as the scenes in the Jahrmarket,
where the annual summer fair is held. Here were booths and tents, and
all sorts of wares, much in the style of the markets of the Riadi in
Moscow, of which I have already given a description. The crowds
gathered around those places of barter and trade appeared to enjoy a
very free-and-easy sort of life. I could see nothing about them
indicative of an oppressed condition. Most of them were reeling drunk,
and such as were not drunk seemed in a fair way of speedily arriving
at that condition of beatitude.
From the Jahrmarket I strolled out to the Cathermthal, a favorite
resort of the citizens during the heat of the day. The shady
promenades of this magnificent garden, its natural beauties, and the
display of equipages and costumes, render it an exceedingly agreeable
lounging-place for a stranger. Every thing is in the Russian
style--the pavilions, the music, the theatrical exhibitions, and the
predominance of naval and military uniforms throughout the grounds.
The scarcity of flowers is remedied to some extent by the profusion
of epaulettes and brass buttons, which the emperor seems to regard as
superior to any thing in nature. No garden that I have yet seen in
Russia is destitute of ornaments of this kind.
Gambling was going on every where--at every tea-table and in every
pavilion. This department of civilization is well represented in Revel
by the Russians. Horse-racing, cards, dominoes, and other amusements
and games of hazard, are their ruling passion. A Russian who will not
bet his head after he has lost all his valuable possessions must be a
very poor representative of his country indeed. I have rarely seen
such a passionate devotion to the gaming-table, even in California,
which is not usually behind the nations of Europe in all that pertains
to the cultivation of the human mind. Revel must be a heaven to a
genuine Russian. All is free and unreserved, and morals are said to be
unknown, save to a few of the old-fashioned citizens and gentry.
Visitors usually leave their own behind them, and depend upon chance
for a fresh supply in case of necessity.
The afternoon was warm, and it occurred to me that a stroll on the
beach would be pleasant. Accompanied by my friend the horse-jockey,
who seemed determined to hold on to me as long as I remained in Revel,
under the conviction, no doubt, that I was secretly engaged in the
horse business, and would come out in my true character before long, I
sauntered down in the direction of some bathing tents, scattered along
the beach a little below the port. My jockey friend was continually
trying to pump out of me upon which of the horses in the approaching
race it was my intention to bet, urging me as a friend not to throw
away my money on the roan or chestnut, although appearances were in
their favor, but to go in heavy on the black mare; and notwithstanding
I assured him it was not my intention to risk any portion of my
capital on this race, he was pertinacious in giving me his advice, and
could not be convinced that I know nothing about the horses, and
never bet on races of any kind. "Sare," said he, "you are a stranger.
These Russians are great rascals. They will cheat you out of your
eyes. I speakee English. I am your friend." I thanked him very
cordially, but assured him there was no danger of my being cheated. He
then went into a dissertation on the relative merits of the horses, to
prove that it was impossible for me, a perfect stranger, to escape
bankruptcy among so many sharpers. "But," said I, "the horse-race
takes place to-morrow, does it not?" "Yes, sare, to-morrow at three
o'clock! You will be there? I shall also be there!" "But, my good
friend, I leave to-night in the steamer; therefore all your kindness
is thrown away!" "Oh! you must not leave to-night. You must see the
horse-race!" In vain I assured him it was impossible for me to remain.
He was not to be put off on any pretext, and, having made up his mind
that I must remain, I was forced to drop the subject and let him have
his way. While he was enlarging upon the merits of the black mare, my
attention was attracted by a group of bathers--ladies, as I judged by
their voices, though, as they were dressed in rather a fantastic
style, I could not perceive any other indication of the sex. One of
the party--a lively young girl of sixteen or seventeen--seemed to be a
perfect mermaid. She plunged and swam, ducked and dived, kicked up her
delicate little feet, and disappeared under the surf in a way that
struck me with awe and admiration. Never was there such an enchanting
picture of perfect abandonment to the enjoyment of the occasion. A
poetic feeling I took possession of me. Visions of grottoes under the
deep sea waves, and beautiful princesses and maidens, filled my soul.
I thought of Gulnare in the Arabian Nights, and felt disposed, like
Mirza, the King of Persia, to "embrace her with great tenderness." It
was really a very pretty sight. "Sare," said my companion,
confidentially, "take my advice. She is blind of one eye, and has a
strain in the fore leg, but you may bet on her! I jockeyed her for
six months before the last race." He was still talking about the black
mare. I turned away to hide my impatience. After a few words of
desultory conversation, I excused myself on the plea of sickness, and
bade him good-evening.
At 8 P.M. I took my departure from Revel. A new batch of passengers
had come on board. We were soon steaming our way across the Gulf of
Finland. I had rarely spent a more pleasant day, and, if time had
permitted, would gladly have prolonged my sojourn in the quaint old
city of Revel. The summer nights were still incomparably beautiful. A
glow of sunshine was visible in the sky as late as eleven o'clock. At
two, the rays of the rising sun began to illuminate the horizon. A
dead calm gave to the sleeping waters of the Gulf the appearance of a
lake; and as we approached the shores of Helsingfors, the illusion was
heightened by innumerable little islands, clothed with verdant slopes
of grass and groves of pine. The harbor of Helsingfors derives a
peculiar interest from its system of fortifications. Nature seems to
have done much to render it impregnable; and what Nature has not done
has been accomplished by the military genius of the Russians. Immense
masses of rock rise from the water in every direction, leaving deep
narrow passages between for vessels. Every rock is a fortress. The
steamer passed through a perfect maze of fortifications. Guns bore
upon us from all sides--out of the forts, out of holes in the
rocks--in short, out of every conceivable nook and crevice in the bay.
The very rocks seemed to be alive with sentinels and to bustle with
armories. Probably there is no part of the Russian dominions, except
Cronstadt, more thoroughly fortified than Sweaborg. The system of
engineering displayed upon this point evinces the highest order of
military genius. The fortifications embrace a series of forts,
castles, barracks, and military establishments of various kinds,
situated on seven islands of solid rock, forming the different
channels of approach to the harbor. Count Ehrensuerd, Field-marshal
of Sweden, is entitled to the credit of having devised the original
system of fortifications, afterward so successfully carried out by the
Czars of Russia. This was the last rallying-point of the Swedes during
the war with Russia. In 1808, Admiral Cronstadt, the commander of the
Swedish forces, who had hitherto proved himself a brave and patriotic
officer, submitted to terms of capitulation and delivered over the
forts to the Russians. History scarcely furnishes a parallel to such a
wanton and unaccountable act of treachery. Cronstadt had fifteen
hundred men, two frigates, and all the munitions of war to hold his
position against any force that could be brought against him; while
the Russians were reduced to great extremities, and, it is said, had
scarcely force enough left to man the forts after they were evacuated
by the Swedes. Sufficient testimony has been gathered by historians to
show that Cronstadt bartered his honor for money; yet, strange to say,
such is the high estimation in which he was originally held by the
Swedes, that many of them to this day profess to disbelieve that he
was capable of such an infamous crime. It is thought by some that he
must have been laboring under some mental hallucination at the time of
the capitulation. Be that as it may, the success of the Russian arms
was doubtless greatly facilitated by this act of treason. Cronstadt,
like Benedict Arnold, died an isolated and broken-hearted man. His
ill-gotten gains were but a poor recompense for the infamy entailed
upon his name. Such, indeed, as all history shows, has been and must
ever be the fate of all traitors to their country.
Helsingfors was founded by Gustavus Vasa in the sixteenth century. A
portion of the old town is still visible, though there is little about
it beyond a few ruined walls possessing much historical interest.
After the Russians obtained possession they enlarged and improved the
city upon its present site, and in 1819 it became the capital of
Finland. In 1827 Abo suffered from a general conflagration, after
which the grand University of that city was removed to Helsingfors,
which now comprises the most important public buildings and
institutions in Finland. Among these are the senate-house, the palace
of the governor, the Museum, the Botanical Garden, the Observatory,
etc. The streets in the lower parts of the city are broad and regular,
and many of the houses are quite as good as the generality of private
residences in Moscow or St. Petersburg. The principal church, which is
built in the form of a Greek cross, is a conspicuous and imposing
edifice, standing near the centre of the town on a rocky eminence,
presenting on the approach up the harbor a peculiarly Russian effect
with its gilded domes and crosses. The green roofs of the houses also
remind one that he is still within the dominions of Russia; and if any
doubt on that point should remain after landing from the steamer, it
is speedily dispelled by the vast numbers of Russian soldiers and
officers constantly marching about the streets.
I had two days to devote to the objects of interest in and around
Helsingfors. For convenience and economy, I took a room in a Finnish
hotel, on one of the back streets. Having deposited my knapsack, my
first visit was to the Observatory, from which a beautiful view is to
be had of the harbor and fortifications. From this point of
observation a very good idea may be formed of the extent and general
character of the town. It covers a large area of solid rocks, the
entire foundation consisting of immense round boulders, forming a
succession of ups and downs singularly varied in outline and
picturesque at every point of view. Beyond the main part of the town,
toward the interior, the country is mountainous, and covered for the
most part with dense forests of pine. Cultivation has made but little
progress beyond the immediate suburbs. A few miles from the waters of
the bay the eye rests upon an apparently untrodden wilderness of rocky
heights and pine forests, and toward the Gulf nothing can exceed the
desolate grandeur of the scene. Rock-bound islands, upon which the
surf breaks with an unceasing moan; points and promontories covered
with dark forests; a rugged coast, dimly looming through the mist;
innumerable sea-gulls whirling and screaming over the dizzy pinnacles,
are its principal features. While I was seated on a bank of moss near
the Observatory, enjoying the beauties of the scene, strains of music
were wafted up on the breeze from the shady recesses of the Botanical
Gardens, toward which I saw that the citizens were wending their way.
It was Sunday, which here as well as in Germany is a day of
recreation. I took a by-path and speedily joined the crowd. The people
of every degree are well dressed and respectable, and I was somewhat
surprised to find so much politeness, cultivation, and intelligence in
such an out-of-the-way part of the world. The music was excellent, and
the display of style and fashion in the gardens was quite equal to any
thing I had seen in my European travels. From what little I saw of the
Finns, I was greatly prepossessed in their favor. They seem to me to
be a primitive, substantial, and reliable race, strong in their
affections, kind and hospitable toward strangers, amiable and
inoffensive, yet brave and patriotic--hating the Russians with a
cordiality truly refreshing. I formed a casual acquaintance with
several of them during my rambles about the Garden. No sooner did they
discern my nationality than they gave me to understand that their
Constitution had been violated, their liberties trampled under foot,
their rights disregarded, and their patience under all these injuries
misconstrued. "We only await an opportunity," they said, "to prove to
the world that we are still a free-born people. The time is not
distant. In the heart of every Finn burns the spirit of a freeman and
a patriot! We are not a race doomed to slavery. You who are an
American can understand us! We only want a chance to cast off the
chains of despotism which now oppress us. It is coming: we are
overpowered now, but not conquered! We hate the Russians! No true
Finn can ever amalgamate with such a race!"
This was the strain in which I was constantly addressed.
Notwithstanding the electoral privileges guaranteed to the Finns under
their Constitution, and the fact that many of the municipal offices
are filled by themselves, there is no more community of interest
between them and their rulers than between the Italians and the
Austrians. Their hatred of the government and of all its concomitants
is implacable. It seemed a luxury to some of these poor people to find
a sympathizing listener. I met many intelligent Finns, both in
Helsingfors and Abo, who spoke good English, and never conversed with
one for five minutes without hearing the same strong expressions of
dislike to the present condition of affairs, and sanguine hopes for
the future. There is only hope for them, that I can see--that the
emancipation of the serfs may lead to the establishment of a more
liberal system of government throughout the Russian dominions. All
hopes based upon isolated revolutions are futile.
CHAPTER XXII.
A BATHING SCENE.
I devoted the afternoon to a stroll on the sea-shore, which presents
many interesting features in the neighborhood of Helsingfors. A
considerable portion of the town, as already stated, is built upon
immense boulders of solid rock, and some of the streets are entirely
impracticable for wheeled vehicles, owing to the rugged masses of
stone with which Nature has thought proper to pave them. Indeed, it is
no easy task for a pedestrian to make his way through the suburbs,
over the tremendous slippery boulders that lie scattered over the
earth in every direction, the trail being in some instances higher
than the houses. I can not conceive how people can travel over such
streets in wet weather; it seems a task only fit for goats under
favorable circumstances; but the Finns are an ingenious people, and
probably ride on the backs of the goats when walking is impracticable.
Passing the straggling lines of fishermen's huts forming the outskirts
of the town, I rambled over two or three miles of rocky fields till I
found myself on the shores of the gulf, at a point sufficiently
lonesome and desolate to be a thousand miles from any inhabited
portion of the globe. Taking possession of a natural chair, worn in
the rocks by the rains of many centuries, I seated myself upon its
mossy cushion, and, baring my head to the pleasant sea-breeze, quietly
enjoyed the scene. Perhaps this very seat was the throne of an old
viking! Here were sea-shells, and glittering pebbles, and tufts of
moss for his crown; and here were sea-gulls to make music for him, and
the spray from the wild waves to keep him cool; and a thousand
rock-bound islands, lying outspread to the north, with grottoes in
them for his ships; and piles upon piles of rocky palaces all around,
covered with golden roofs of moss; and every thing, in short, that
could make glad the heart of a grim old viking residing on the edge of
the arctic circle. And if this summer scene, with its blue sea, and
wood-capped islands, and warm sun, and balmy breeze, could not make
glad his heart, it would not be difficult to imagine what changes
winter could bring over it, and how the old viking, sitting on his
throne by the sea-shore, could enjoy the dead and icy waste before
him; and how the winter drifts would whistle through his hair; and how
cheery the jagged rocks would look peeping up out of the snow-drifts;
and how balmy would be the night-air at sixty degrees below
freezing-point; and how the old viking would shake his beard with
laughter as he warmed his hands in a midday sun, only ten feet above
the horizon, and make the icicles rattle on his chin; and sit thus
laughing and blowing his fingers, and rattling his icy beard, and
saying to himself, "What a blessing to be a Finlander! How horribly
the natives of Spain and Italy must suffer from bad climate! What a
pity it is Finland is not large enough to accommodate the whole human
race." With such thoughts as these I amused myself for some time,
soothed and charmed by the pleasant sea-breeze and the music of the
waves upon the rocks. The air was deliciously pure, and the odor of
the sea-weeds had something in it so healthful and inspiring that I
was insensibly carried back to by-gone days. How short a time it
seemed since I was a wanderer upon the rock-bound shores of Juan
Fernandez, yet how many strange scenes I had passed through since
then--how much of the world I had seen, with its toils, and troubles,
and vicissitudes! Here I was now, after years of travel in every
clime, among the various nations of the earth, sitting solitary and
alone upon an isolated rock on the shores of Finland! Whither was I
going? What was the object? Where was the result? When was it to end?
Years were creeping over me; I was no longer in the heyday of youth,
yet the vague aspirations of boyhood still clung to me--the insatiable
craving to see more and more of the world--the undefined hope that I
would yet live to be cast away upon a desolate island, and become a
worthy disciple of the immortal Robinson Crusoe! Ah me! What a
lonesome feeling it is to be a visionary, enthusiastic boy all one's
life, in this practical world of dollars and cents, where other boys
are men, and men forget that they ever were young! But this, you say,
is all sentimental nonsense. Of course it is. I admit the full folly
of such thoughts. It would be a pitiable spectacle indeed to see every
body inspired by the vagabond spirit of Robinson Crusoe. No doubt, if
you were sitting upon a rock on the Gulf of Finland, my respected
Californian friend, you would be hammering off the croppings and
trying to discover the indications. You consider that the true
philosophy of life--to dig, and delve, and burrow in the ground, and
get gold and silver out of it, and suffer rheumatism in your bones and
cramps in your stomach, and wear out your life in a practical way,
while we visionaries are dreaming sentimental nonsense! But, after
all, does the one pay any better than the other in the long run? Will
gold or silver make you see farther into a millstone, or give you a
better appetite, or put youth and health into your veins, or cause you
to sleep more soundly of nights, or prolong your life to an indefinite
period beyond the span allotted to the average of mankind? Will you
never be convinced of the truth of these inspired words, which can not
be repeated too often: As you brought nothing into the world, so you
can take nothing out of it?
Come, then, let us be young again, and dash into the blue waters of
Finland, and buffet the sparkling brine as it seethes and boils over
the rocks! Away with your gold and your silver, and your toils and
cares, and let us play Robinson Crusoe and Friday here in this
solitary little glen, where "our right there is none to
dispute"--unless it may be the Czar of Russia. Off with your shirt,
your boots, your drawers, your all, and be for once a genuine
savage--be my man Friday, and I'll teach you how to enjoy life. Ye
gods! doesn't it feel fine--that plunge in the foaming brine! Why, you
look like a boiled lobster already; the glow of health is all over
you; your eyes sparkle, your skin glistens; you shoot out the salt
sea-spray from your nostrils in a manner that would surprise any
porpoise; you whoop and you yell like a young devil let loose! Never
in the world would I take you to be a hard, money-making, lucre-loving
man! Why, my dear Friday, you are a perfect jewel of a savage! I
didn't know it was you, and doubt if you knew it yourself! Isn't it
glorious? I feel a thousand years younger! Don't you hear me singing,
"Oh, poor Robinson Crusoe!
Tinky ting tang, tinky ting tang,
Oh, poor Robinson Crusoe!"
But the water is rather fresh--considering how much salt there is in
it. We had better take a race over the rocks. Run, Friday, for your
life. If I catch you, overboard you go into the sea again. Run, you
savage, run! Voices? you say, human voices?
Great Heavens! Where are you, Friday? Gone! disappeared behind that
projecting ledge of rocks. And here am I, all alone, up to my arm-pits
in the water, with a group of Finnish ladies standing there, not a
hundred yards off, looking at me!--ay, gazing steadfastly at me, and,
what is worse, splitting their sides laughing at my confusion! What in
the world is to be done? The water seems to be growing colder and
colder. I am chilled through. My jaws begin to chatter. Suppose a
shark should seize me by the leg--or a sudden and violent cramp should
take possession of me? My gracious! what are those women doing now?
Actually seating themselves on the rocks, within ten steps of my
clothes, and spreading several packages of bread, cheese, and cakes
around them! They are going to enjoy a picnic while I enjoy my bath! I
hear their merry voices; I can imagine the general drift of their
jokes. How innocently they eat, and drink, and laugh. Possibly they
take me for a seal or a walrus! Certainly nothing is visible but my
head, on the crown of which, I regret to say, is a bald spot about the
size of your hand. It may be very funny to see it dodging up and down
among the breakers--but I can't stand it much longer. Already the
spray has wellnigh strangled me; I shiver all over; a horrible
presentiment is uppermost in my mind that polypi, and sea-leeches, and
shiny jelly-fish are fastening their suckers upon my legs; I jump, and
kick, and plunge in an agony of apprehension, while those fair
creatures on the rock imagine, no doubt, that I am disporting myself
in sheer exuberance of joy. If they only knew that I had been full
half an hour in the water before they appeared, there might be some
hope of a release; but that does not seem to have entered their heads.
Never in all my experience, reader, was I in such a predicament. This
is no fancy sketch. It is true, every word of it. Had the picnickers
been old ladies, I might have shut my eyes, and made a break out of
the water for my clothes; but three of them, at least, were young,
and, worse than that, very pretty! The courage for so daring and
monstrous an act was not in me. I felt that it would be easier to die;
and yet to die in this way is pretty hard when it comes to a practical
test. What the deuce was to be done? I could not speak a word of
Finnish, otherwise I might have implored them to retire a few hundred
yards and let me get my clothes. With a shirt, or even a
pocket-handkerchief, I might have charged upon the enemy; but I had
nothing--not even a hat--as a shield against the battery of sparkling
eyes that bore down upon me! A thousand expedients flashed through my
mind in the extremity of my sufferings. I would slip out of the water
on all-fours, and creep over the rocks like a seal, but that would be
an extremely ungraceful way of approaching a bevy of strange ladies.
Then it occurred to me if I could get hold of a bunch of sea-weeds, it
might serve as a temporary substitute for a costume; but the weeds had
all drifted away by this time, and not a patch was in sight. Even a
large oyster-shell might have afforded some assistance; but who ever
heard of oyster-shells in the Gulf of Finland? Nothing remained save
to dive down and seize a big rock, detach it from the bottom, and,
holding it up before me, make a break for the pile of clothes; yet
when I came to consider the preposterous spectacle that a middle-aged
man would present in a state of nudity charging full tilt upon a party
of ladies, with a big rock in his hands and a gleam of desperation in
his eye, the idea seemed too monstrous to be entertained, and I was
forced to give it up. The difficulty was becoming really serious.
Doubtless it appears very funny to my California friends, but I can
assure them it was pretty near death to me. I would have given ten
dollars for the poorest cotton shirt that was ever dealt out by an
Indian agent to a Reservation Digger; nay, transparent as the blankets
are, I might have made one serve my purpose by doubling it three or
four times and holding it up front.
All this, however, though very well in its way, did not relieve me
from my embarrassing predicament. Something must be done, and that
very speedily. I was rapidly wilting under the chilling influence of
the water. Ten minutes more would render me a fit subject for a
coroner's inquest. I saw but one alternative: to work my course a few
hundred yards up the shore, and then creep out the best way I could,
and run for my life till I found some friendly nook among the rocks in
which I could conceal myself till these fair Finns took a notion to
depart.
Acting upon this idea, I ducked down as low as possible, and crept
over the jagged and slippery rocks, in mortal dread all the time that
some receding wave would leave me a dripping spectacle for these fair
damsels to laugh at; till, bruised and scarified beyond farther
endurance, I worked my way to a landing-place, where I paused in a
recumbent position--that is to say, on all-fours--to take an
observation. They must have perceived something ludicrous in my
attitude. A wild scream of laughter saluted my ears. I could stand no
more. What little warmth was left in my blood forced itself into my
head and face as I sprang to my feet. With a groan of shame and
mortification, I took to my heels; and never before, so help me
Jupiter! did I run so fast in my life. Scream after scream of laughter
followed me! It is impossible for me to conjecture how I looked, but I
felt dreadfully destitute of sail as I scudded over the rough pathway
that wound around the shore. Blushing, panting, and utterly
overwhelmed with conflicting emotions of modesty and despair, I darted
behind the friendly shelter of a rock, and inwardly resolved that if
ever I went bathing in Finland again, I would at least perform my
ablutions in a more appropriate costume than Nature had bestowed upon
me.
The next question was, how long were these people going to enjoy
themselves at my expense? Was I to be blockaded from my clothes all
the rest of the afternoon? I could not, upon any principle of
international law, undertake to break the blockade on the ground that
it was not effectual, and yet it was pretty hard to do without my
cotton. What I had suffered from the cold while in the water was
nothing to what I now began to experience from the unobstructed rays
of the sun. My skin was rapidly assuming every variety of color
supposed to exist in the rainbow, and a painful consciousness
possessed me that in half an hour more I would be blistered from head
to foot. There was no shade on my side of the rock, and nothing any
where in sight that could afford the least protection. Racked with
renewed anguish, I peeped out to see if there was any earthly prospect
reaching my clothes. Horror upon horror! what were they doing now? Did
my eyes deceive me? As sure as fate, they were all quietly undressing
themselves! Hats, scarves, parasols and dresses were scattered all
around them; there they sat, on the moss-covered rocks, their
alabaster necks and limbs glistening in the sun, looking for all the
world like a bevy of mermaids, laughing and chattering in the highest
glee, perfectly indifferent to my presence! I saw no more. A dizziness
came over me. Consternation seized my inmost soul. Drawing back behind
the rock. I held my face close up to it and shut both my eyes. Don't
talk to me about courage! Every man is a coward by nature. Of what
avail was it that I had killed whales and chased grizzly bears? Here I
was now, hiding my face, shutting my eyes, trembling in the hot sun
like a man with an ague, both knees knocking together, and my heart
ready to pop out of my mouth from abject fear! Strange--wasn't
it?--especially after having made the grand tour of Europe, in many
parts of which live men and women are ranked with statuary. What harm
is there, after all, in discarding those artificial trappings which
disfigure the human form divine? Many a man who looks like an Apollo
Belvidere in his natural condition, becomes a very commonplace fellow
the moment he steps into his conventional disguise. He is no longer
heroic; he may be a very vulgar-looking mortal, not at all calculated
to produce classical impressions on any body. His form divine has
fallen into the hands of a tailor, who may be neither an artist or a
poet. And since we can admire an Apollo Belvidere, why not a Venus de
Medici, or, still more, the living, breathing impersonation of beauty
buffeting the waves with
"Shapely limb and lubricated joint."
But, hang it all! though not an ill-shaped man, I don't flatter myself
there was any thing in my personal appearance, as I crouched behind
the rock, shutting both eyes as hard as I could, to remind the most
enthusiastic artist of the Apollo Belvidere! Nay, the gifted Hawthorne
himself could scarcely have made a Marble Faun out of so unpromising a
subject. And as for the fair bathers, who by this time were plunging
about in the water like naiads, it would of course be impossible for
me to say how far they were improved by lack of costume, since I
looked in another direction, and kept my eyes faithfully closed from
the very beginning. The question now occurred to me, Would I not be
justified by the law of nations in breaking the blockade? It was now
or never. If they once commenced dressing, farewell to hope! Well, I
did it. Heaven only knows how I got through the terrible ordeal. I
only remember that desperation gave strength and speed to my limbs,
and I ran with incredible velocity. A moment of terrible confusion
ensued as I grasped at my scattered habiliments. There came a scream
of laughter from the wicked naiads who were sporting in the waves. I
fled over the hills--my bundle in my arms--and never once stopped till
I reached a small valley about half a mile distant. Breathless,
mortified, and bewildered at the oddity of the adventure. I hurriedly
dressed, and walked back to town. Arrived at my hotel, I called for a
bottle of schnapps, retired to my room, locked the door, and
fervently ejaculated, "'All's well that ends well!' Here's to the
ladies of Helsingfors! But if ever you catch me in such a scrape
again, my name's not Browne!"
CHAPTER XXIII.
ABO--FINLAND.
I was strongly inclined to spend several weeks in Helsingfors. The
bathing is delightful, and the manners and customs of the people are
primitive and interesting. My adventure on the sea-shore, as I soon
discovered, was nothing uncommon. I mentioned the matter to my
landlady--a Finnish woman of very sociable manners, who spoke a little
English. I asked her if it was customary for the ladies to dispense
with bathing-dresses. She said they generally wore something when they
bathed in public, but beyond the limits of the regular bath-houses, at
the end of the Botanical Gardens, they seldom troubled themselves
about matters of that kind; in fact, they preferred going in without
any obstruction, because "they could swim so much better."
Having procured my passport at the Bureau of the Police, I took
passage in a Swedish steamer bound for Abo and Stockholm. Next morning
by daylight the steamer arrived from St. Petersburg. I went on board,
and in a few hours more the fortifications of Sweaborg were dim in the
distance.
The accommodations on board the Swedish steamers are excellent. I took
passage in the second cabin, for the sake of economy, and found every
thing as clean and comfortable as I could desire. The waiters are
polite and attentive, the fare is good, and the company quiet and
respectable. The difference in this respect is very striking between
first and second class passengers on board of American and Swedish
steamers. In the latter there is no rowdyism--no incivility from
officers or servants; and, so far as the passengers are concerned, I
could not perceive that they were debarred from any of the privileges
enjoyed by passengers of the first class. They had the entire range of
the vessel, and were treated with the same respect and consideration
shown to others who possessed the means of indulgence in a little more
style. I have been particularly pleased with this trait in the
management of public conveyances throughout Europe. In Sweden and
Norway it is especially characteristic. The commonest deck-passenger
on board a Swedish or Norwegian steamer is treated with courtesy.
Indeed, I have seen instances of care and tenderness toward the poorer
classes, whose circumstances compelled them to travel in this way,
that I regret to say would excite astonishment in our own democratic
country. I can scarcely understand why it is that the captain and
officers of a steam-ship on our side of the water consider it their
duty to harass passengers who do not pay the highest price with all
sorts of vexatious restrictions, and to render their condition as
uncomfortable as possible. To be overbearing, insolent, and
ungentlemanly seems to be the only aim of these important
functionaries, and, so far as my experience goes, they succeed so well
in this respect that if they do not actually prove themselves brutes
and blackguards during the passage, they are usually rewarded for
their forbearance, on reaching the port of destination, by a card of
thanks. I have seen no such insolence on the part of officers and
slavishness on that of passengers on board of any Swedish or Norwegian
steamer, as I have often seen on the Panama and California coast
steamers. Yet cards of thanks are not common in Europe. In fact, they
would be regarded as a reflection upon the officers rather than an
evidence of complimentary appreciation.
The coast of Finland from Helsingfors to Abo abounds in small rocky
islands, covered, for the most part, with a stunted growth of pine.
The outline of the main land is extremely rugged and irregular,
presenting a succession of promontories, bays, and inlets,
weather-beaten cliffs of granite, and gloomy pine forests. No sign of
habitation is to be seen during the entire voyage, with the exception
of an occasional group of fishermen's huts or a custom-house station.
The whole country has the appearance of an unbroken wilderness. The
steamer plows her way, hour after hour, through the narrow and winding
passages that lie between the islands--sometimes so close to the
overhanging cliffs and rugged boulders of granite as almost to
touch--and often apparently land-locked amid the maze of islands and
promontories. While there is nothing grand or imposing in the scenery,
the coast of Finland is certainly one of the most interesting portions
of the world, in a geological point of view. The singular formation of
the rocks, their rich and varied colors, and the strange manner in
which Nature has grouped them together, afford an endless variety of
interesting studies. The utter isolation of the inhabitants from the
busy world, their rude and primitive mode of life, their simplicity,
hardihood, and daring; the rigors of climate to which they are
subject, and their strong attachment to their sea-girt homes and
perilous pursuits, render the trip interesting to the general tourist,
who, though not skilled in geology, may be supposed to possess, like
myself, a fancy for gathering up odds and ends touching the condition
of his fellow-beings.
The people of this coast region are a hardy race, whose wild habits of
life and isolation from the great outer world develop in them many
striking and peculiar traits of character. During the long winters,
when the bays, inlets, and harbors are blocked with ice, they become
wood-choppers or lumbermen, and spend their time chiefly in the
forests. Upon the breaking up of winter they prepare their nets and
fishing-gear, and, as soon as the season permits, set forth in their
little smacks, and devote the principal part of the summer to catching
and curing fish, for which they find a ready sale at the stations
along the shore, frequented by traders from St. Petersburg. They live
in small cabins, built of pine logs, rarely consisting of more than
two rooms. Each family owns a small patch of ground, with an unlimited
range of forest. A few cows or goats, a vegetable garden, and some
chickens or ducks, constitute all they require for domestic use, and
these are usually attended by the women and children during the
absence of the men on their fishing expeditions. Education is at a low
ebb among them, though the rudimental branches are not altogether
neglected. They are a simple, hospitable, and kind-hearted people,
ignorant and superstitious, yet by no means deficient in natural
capacity. No better sailors than the Finns are to be found in any part
of the world, and there is scarcely a sea throughout the arctic
regions which has not been visited by their vessels. Although the
climate is rigorous during a considerable portion of the year, the
Finns prefer it to any other in the world, and conscientiously believe
the garden of Paradise must have been originally located in Finland.
The lower classes are contented and happy, caring little for affairs
of government, unless they happen to be subjected to some peculiar or
oppressive restraints. As the traveler approaches the Gulf of Bothnia,
they assimilate very closely to the same classes in Sweden, and but
little difference is perceptible either in their language or costume.
The educated classes, such as the professional men, merchants,
bankers, traders, etc., are as polished as most people throughout the
North of Europe, and many of them are distinguished for their
cultivated manners and general intelligence. Such of these as I
conversed with on board the steamer impressed me very favorably. I
found them liberal in their sentiments, and devoted admirers of our
American institutions. Yet, strange to say, the only secessionist I
met in the course of my wanderings in this region was a Finn. Hearing
me speak English, he immediately opened a conversation on the subject
of the revolutionary movement in the United States. He did not know
what we were fighting for; thought the North was acting very badly;
regarded the people of the South as an oppressed and persecuted race;
believed in slavery; considered the Lincoln government a perfect
despotism, etc. In short, his views were a general epitome of the
speeches, proclamations, and messages of the leading rebels throughout
the South. I listened to him with great patience. He had an
interesting family on board, all of whom spoke English; and what
struck me as peculiar, a species of negro English common in the
Southern States. "Sir," said I, at length, "you surprise me! I had not
expected to meet so strong an advocate of slavery and slave
institutions in this latitude. Can it be possible that you are a
Finn?" "Yes, sir," he answered, "a genuine Finn--now on a visit to my
native country after an absence of twenty-five years." "Then you must
have lived in the South?" "Yes, sir; in Montgomery, Alabama. I have
property there. It was getting pretty bad there for a family, and I
thought I had better pay a visit to Finland while the war was going
on." This accounted for the peculiar sentiments of my fellow-traveler!
He seemed to be a very nice old gentleman, and I was sorry to find him
tinctured with the heresies of rebellion. Farther conversation with
him satisfied me that if he could get his property out of Montgomery,
and put it in Massachusetts, he would be a very respectable Union man.
I don't think his heart was in the movement, though his pocket,
doubtless, felt a considerable interest in it.
The town of Abo, formerly the capital of Finland--now a place of no
great importance except as a custom-house and military station--is
beautifully situated on the banks of a river called the Aurajoki,
about three miles above its mouth. Vessels of medium draught,
including the coasting steamers, have no difficulty in ascending as
far as the bridge, where they lie alongside the wharves and receive or
discharge freight. Those of larger draught usually anchor off the
village of Boxholm, a picturesque gathering of red cottages, with
high peaked roofs, situated at the entrance of the river. Above the
village, on the summit of a rocky cliff, stands the fort of Abohus,
ready at a moment's notice to pour a broadside into any enemy of
Imperial Russia that may undertake to pass up the river.
Abo, since the removal of the capital and University to Helsingfors
and the great conflagration of 1827, which destroyed two thirds of the
town, has fallen into decay, and now does not contain a population of
more than ten or twelve thousand souls. Spread over an area of several
miles square, with a sufficient number of houses to accommodate twice
or three times the population, its broad, stone-paved thoroughfares
and numerous untenanted buildings have a peculiarly desolate
appearance. Back a little from the river the pedestrian may walk half
a mile at midday without meeting a single soul in the streets. A dead
silence reigns over these deserted quarters, as if the prevailing
lethargy had fallen upon the few inhabitants that remain. Grass grows
on the sidewalks, and the basement walls of the houses are covered
with moss. A dank, chilly mildew seems to hang in the air. One might
become green all over, like a neglected tomb-stone, should he forget
himself and stand too long in one spot. I spent a considerable portion
of the day rambling through these melancholy by-ways, and must admit
that the effect upon my spirits was not cheering. Now and then the
apparition of some cadaverous old woman, wrinkled with age--a greenish
hue upon her features--would appear unexpectedly at some unexpected
opening in one of the ruinous old houses, and startle me by a gaze of
wonder or some unintelligible speech addressed to herself. Probably a
human being had not been seen in that vicinity for the last month.
Sometimes a slatternly servant-girl would appear in the distance, her
dress bedraggled with slops, a tub of water on the pavement close by,
and a long-handled mop in her hand, with which she seemed to be
vigorously engaged in scrubbing the green slime and tufts of moss off
the window-sills; but catching a sight of the strangers, down would
go the mop, and then the usual hasty attempt would be made at fixing
her hair and otherwise increasing her personal charms. As I drew near,
this useful member of society would naturally take a sidelong glance
at the strange gentleman, and perceiving that he was uncommonly
attractive in personal appearance, it was quite natural she should
make a neat little courtesy and say "_Got Aften!_" to which, of
course, I always responded in the most affable manner, not forgetting
to say to myself, in an audible tone, "Sken Jumfru!"--a pretty girl.
No harm in that, is there?
In the afternoon I walked out to a public garden about two miles from
town, where there are some very pleasant promenades, a large building
containing a ballroom, and numerous pavilions for refreshments. It was
a festive occasion, and the élite and fashion of Abo were assembled
there in their best attire. The music was inspiring. Dancing seemed
contagious. The ballroom was crowded, and old and young were whirling
about on the light fantastic toe with a zest and spirit truly
inspiring. Old gentlemen with bald heads seemed to have forgotten
their age and infirmities, and whirled the blooming damsels around in
the dizzy mazes of the waltz as dexterously as the youngest; and young
gentlemen hopped about quite frantic with joy, and altogether
bewildered with the beauty of their partners. It was really a pretty
sight. Rarely had I seen so many pleasant faces of both sexes,
especially those of the ladies. Good-humor, simplicity, and frankness
were their predominant traits. All ceremony seemed to be cast aside,
and every body participated in the dance as if it were one great
family frolic. The formality of introduction was dispensed with, or
probably most of the guests were already acquainted. The fiddlers
scraped louder and louder; wilder and faster blew the horns, and on
went the dance with increasing vigor. I was getting excited--the
spirit of the thing was contagious. Though not much of a dancer, yet
I had occasionally in my life filled a place in a reel or a cotillon.
Waltzing, to be sure, was a little beyond my experience, but I had a
general idea of the figure, and could not perceive that there was any
thing very difficult about it. Most of the waltzers here whirled
around with great ease, and I could see no reason why it would not be
entirely practicable for an active man like myself, who thought
nothing of climbing high mountains or jumping across small rivers, to
do the same. Besides, these people were strangers; it would be a good
opportunity to try my skill. Doubtless, any of the young ladies would
oblige me if I asked them to dance. They seemed to oblige every body
that asked them, and showed no signs of fatigue. Indeed, they looked
fresher and more vigorous after every bout. I was particularly charmed
with the appearance of one young lady. Her complexion was florid, and
her figure absolutely magnificent. At a rough guess she must have
weighed a hundred and eighty pounds. Every time she whirled past me I
could feel the floor give way. Her partner was rather small, and
revolved around her like a planet round the sun. When she laughed,
which was nearly all the time, her beautiful mouth opened at least two
thirds of the way across her face, revealing a set of teeth to which
flakes of snow, pearls, or any thing of that kind could bear no
comparison. The extraordinary vigor of this girl, her tremendous
powers of endurance, her weight, beauty, and good-humor, rendered her
a general favorite. She was, in fact, the belle of the room. To dance
with her would be an honorable distinction. Now I am naturally a
modest man, but of late years that defect has been gradually
disappearing from my character. I resolved to dance with this girl--if
she would consent. As soon as there was a pause, therefore, I made
bold to go up to her, and, with a very polite bow, solicited her
hand--in English. She didn't understand English, but she understood
dancing, and answered me very politely in Swedish, "Ja!" I think my
dress and manner, together with my ignorance of the Swedish language,
had rather a favorable effect. She certainly looked complimented and
gratified. I saw her turn round her head as we stood up, and laugh at
the other girls, which I interpreted to mean that she, of all in the
room, had succeeded in catching the distinguished stranger. Well, the
music started--it was a German waltz. I stood holding on to my partner
as the ivy clings to the solid oak. Never did I feel so firm a girl.
Had she been formed of lead she could not have felt more substantial.
Now, thought I, away we'll spin over the floor, a living duet,
altogether accidental, but beautiful to behold--
"Like the sweet tunes that wandering meet,
And so harmoniously they run,
The hearer dreams they are but one."
There was only one consideration that gave me any particular anxiety.
Being of a light and slender figure, I had some apprehensions that in
the giddy whirl of the waltz this powerful young lady might
accidentally throw me out of balance and create an unpleasant scene.
However, there was no time for reflection. At a given signal, away she
started with tremendous energy. I did my best to whirl her round, and
don't think it would be possible for any body to do any better under
the circumstances; but she didn't keep time--or I didn't. Round and
round the room we flew, to the inspiring strains of the music, with an
undulating motion very difficult to conceive, and still more difficult
to execute without danger to the other dancers. The warm blood rushed
to my face; my head grew dizzy: the only thing I saw was that this
style of waltzing must end in destruction to myself or somebody else.
I was fairly lifted off my feet at every turn, and found myself
absolutely hanging on to my partner to keep from falling. She never
relaxed in her vigorous movements one moment; but as the music
increased in spirit, so did she. The room was filled with waltzers. It
was impossible to be flying about in this way without hitting
somebody. I knew it from the very beginning, but what could I do? The
first man down was an old gentleman. I begged his pardon, and helped
him up again. Next I was dashed against a young lady. She and her
partner both went down. I helped them up, and begged pardon again,
which was granted with great good-humor. After that, most of the
waltzers began to get out of the way, so that we presently had a more
enlarged scope of operations. I fancy there was something uncommon in
my style of waltzing that attracted attention. It was not long before
we had the entire circle to ourselves, the crowd standing around and
manifesting the most intense appreciation of our efforts. All went on
very well for a while. Up and down the room, and round and round we
whirled, and at every whirl there was a murmur of admiration and
applause. My beautiful partner shook her sides as if convulsed with an
earthquake--I could feel the motion, but was unable to conjecture the
cause. Possibly she was getting agitated--or it might be that
sentiments of tenderness were stealing over her heart. That idea, or
something else, confused me. I struck out one foot a little awkwardly.
She tripped against it, whirled me half round in attempting to gain
her balance, and then we fell. It was very awkward. What rendered it
still more unpleasant, every body began to laugh. People always do
laugh at the misfortunes of others. I would have picked the young lady
up at once, or at least tried it (for she was rather heavy), but the
fact is, I fell underneath, and was utterly unable to move. Had I been
pinned and riveted to the floor, I could not have been in a more
helpless position. A man whose natural instincts are polite is surely
a subject of sympathy and commiseration under such a pressure of
difficulties as this. I breathed hard, but was unable to get out a
single word of apology, till, with, a laugh and a bound, my fair
partner regained her feet, and then she very good-naturedly assisted
me in regaining mine. Mortified beyond measure, I conducted her to a
seat. As I was passing out of the room soon after, a new waltz struck
up. The dancers went at it again as lively as ever. I turned to see
what had become of my partner. She was whirling over the floor with
undiminished energy in the arms of a young gentleman in military
uniform. He may have been more accustomed to waltzing than I was, but
I think any person present--not excepting the young lady
herself--would have been willing to admit that his style did not
compare with mine in force and individuality. It certainly produced no
such effect upon the audience.
I walked back to town a sober and thoughtful man. This dancing
business is a very foolish pastime. It may do very well for giddy and
thoughtless young persons, but for men of mature years it is the
height of folly. I am surprised that they should be led aside from
their customary propriety by the fascinations of beauty.
The sun was just setting. Its last rays rested upon the ruined walls
of the Observatory. I followed a crowd of citizens who were slowly
toiling up the stone steps, and, after a pretty hard climb, was
rewarded with a magnificent view of the city and surrounding country.
The rocky pinnacle upon which the Observatory stands rises some three
hundred feet above the banks of the river, and overlooks a large
portion of the valley of the Aurajoki. The winding waters of the
river; the green fields; patches of woodland, villas, and gardens; the
blue mountains in the distance, and the silent city lying like a
mouldering corpse beneath, presented a scene singularly picturesque
and impressive. I sat down upon the ruined walls and thought of Abo in
its glory--the ancient head-quarters of Christianity in Finland; the
last abiding-place of the beautiful Caroline Morsson, the peasant
queen of Sweden, wife of Eric XII., who died here, and whose remains
lie in the Cathedral--the city of the mighty hosts of warlike Finns
who fought under the banner of Charles XII., and made a funeral pyre
of their bodies upon the bloody field of Puttara. The present Finns
are of this heroic race. Not less brave, yet less fortunate than the
Spartans of Thermopylæ, they have lost their country and their
freedom, and now groan under the oppression of a despotic government.
While thus musing on the past, a strain of delicious music broke the
stillness. I rambled over the granite cliffs in the direction of the
sound, and soon came to a grove of trees, with an open space in the
middle, occupied by a band of musicians, who were surrounded by a
group of citizens, thus pleasantly passing the summer evening. Booths
and tents were scattered about in every direction, in which cakes and
refreshments were to be had; and gay parties of young people were
seated on long planks so arranged as to make a kind of spring seats,
upon which they bounced up and down to the time of the music. Children
were playing upon the grass, their merry shouts of laughter mingling
pleasantly with the national air performed by the band. On the
moss-covered rocks sat groups of young ladies, guarded by their
amiable mothers or discreet duennas, as the case might be, trying hard
not to see any of the young gentlemen who lounged about in the same
vicinity; and young gentlemen prowled about puffing cigars as if they
didn't care a straw whether the young ladies looked at them or
not--both being, of course, according to the established usages of
society, natural enemies of each other. For the life of me, I can't
tell why it is that young ladies and gentlemen should be thus
everlastingly at war. Would it not be better to kiss and make it up,
and try, if possible, to get along peaceably through the world?
But the steamer blows her whistle--the bell rings--I must hurry on
board. Good-by, dear Finns, big and little, I like you all. God bless
you! Good-by old Abo, with your ancient church, and your moss-grown
streets, and deserts of houses--I feel sorry for you, but I can't help
it! Good-by, Russia! If I don't call again, attribute it to no want of
interest in the great cause of civilization. Just drop me a line and
let me know when the serfs are free and a constitutional government is
established, and I will strain a point to pay my respects to Alexander
II. I rather like the young man, and have an idea that he is capable
of noble deeds and heroic sacrifices. But he must abolish his secret
police, punish them for whipping women, open universities upon a
liberal basis, throw the camarilla and the aristocracy overboard, quit
murdering the poor Poles at Warsaw, and do several other things before
he can have my support. Should he accomplish these beneficial reforms,
and at any future time think proper to settle in my neighborhood,
where the climate is more genial, I shall cheerfully vote for him as
mayor of the city of Oakland.
CHAPTER XXIV.
STOCKHOLM.
The passage from Abo to Stockholm occupies about eighteen hours, and
in fine weather affords a constant succession of agreeable scenes.
With the exception of about four hours of open sea in crossing the
Gulf of Bothnia, the steamer is constantly surrounded by islands, many
of them highly picturesque, and all interesting from their peculiar
geological formation. Occasionally the island winds like a snake
through a wilderness of naked granite boulders, round and slippery,
and barely high enough out of the water to afford a foundation for a
few fishermen's huts, which from time to time break the monotony of
their solitude. Sometimes the channel opens out into broad lakes,
apparently hemmed in on all sides by pine-covered cliffs; then passing
between a series of frightful crags, upthrown, as it were, out of the
water by some convulsion of nature, the surging waves lash their way
through the narrow passages, and threaten each moment to ingulf the
frail vessel, or dash it to atoms against the rocks. The greatest
danger in making this trip arises from the number of sunken rocks,
which often approach to within a few feet of the surface without being
visible. The depth is usually marked by poles or buoys, and it often
happens that the steamer plies her way for hours between these
water-marks, where there is no other indication of danger. The Swedish
and Finnish pilots are proverbially among the best in the world. We
had an old Finn on board--a shaggy old sea-dog, rough and
weather-beaten as any of the rocks on his own rock-bound coast, who, I
venture to say, never slept a wink during the entire passage, or if he
did, it was all the same. He knew every rock, big and little, visible
and invisible, that lay on the entire route between Abo and Stockholm,
and could see them all with his eyes shut. An uncouth, hardy, honest
old monster was this Finn--a Caliban of a fellow, half human, half
fish--with a great sou'wester on his head, a rough monkey-jacket
buttoned around his body, and a pair of boots on his legs that must
have been designed for wading over coral reefs, through seas of
swordfish, shovel-nosed sharks, and unicorns. His broad, honest face
looked for all the world like a granite boulder covered with barnacles
and sea-weed, and ornamented by a bunch of mussels for a nose, and a
pair of shining blue pebbles by way of eyes; and when he spoke, which
was not often, his voice sounded like the keel of a fishing-smack
grating over a bank of gravel. I strongly suspect his father was a
sea-lion and his mother a grampus or scragg whale, and that he was
fished up out of the sea when young by some hardy son of Neptune, and
subsequently trained up in the ways of humanity on board a
fishing-smack, where the food consisted of polypi, lobsters, and black
bread. Yet there was something wonderfully genial about this old
pilot. He chewed enormous quantities of tobacco, the stains of which
around his mouth greatly improved the beauty of his countenance; and
when he was not chewing pigtail he was smoking it, which equally
contributed to soften the asperities of his features. Having sailed
in many seas, he spoke many languages, but none very intelligibly,
owing to some radical defect in the muscles of his mouth. As to the
channel between Abo and Stockholm, which lies partly through the Aland
Islands and numerous adjacent rocks, above and below water, I believe
he had traveled over it so often that he could steer a vessel through
it standing backward as readily as box the compass, or shut both his
eyes and tell where the deepest water lay by the smell of the air and
the taste of his tobacco.
The passage across the Gulf of Bothnia was somewhat rough, and most of
the passengers were sea-sick, owing, no doubt, to the short chopping
motion which prevails on board of all kinds of sea-going vessels in
these inland seas. Having performed various voyages in various parts
of the world, I was, of course, exempt from this annoyance; but my
digestion had been impaired in Russia by the vast quantity of tea,
cucumbers, veal, cabbage-soup, and other horrible mixtures which I had
been forced to consume while there, and which now began to tell on my
constitution. Notwithstanding repeated doses of cognac, taken from
time to time as I walked the decks, the sea began to whirl all round,
the clouds overhead to swing about at random through the rigging, and
the odor of the machinery to produce the strongest and most
disagreeable sensations. I went below to see how things looked there;
but, finding the atmosphere dense and the prospect gloomy, returned in
great haste and looked over the bulwarks to see how fast we were going
through the water. While thus engaged, an amusing thought occurred to
me. Suppose the mermaids who lie down in the briny depths form their
ideas of the beauty of the human countenance from the casual glimpses
thus afforded of our features, would it be possible for the most
susceptible of them to fall in love with us? The idea was so droll
that I was almost convulsed with laughter; but, not wishing to attract
attention by laughing aloud at my own thoughts, I merely clung to the
bulwarks and doubled myself up, trying to avoid the appearance of
eccentricity. At or about the same moment, the old Finnish pilot, with
whom I had formed an acquaintance, came along, and said
good-naturedly, "Hello, sir! I dink you pe sea-sick." "Sea-sick?" said
I, a little nettled. "Oh no, Herr Pilot, I'm an old sailor, and never
get sea-sick." "Vel, I dought you was sick--you look bad, sir,"
answered the good old pilot; "de sea is very rough, sir." Here the
steamer took a notion to pitch down into the water and jump up again
suddenly, and then rolled on one side and then on the other, and at
the same time a number of the passengers began to make grotesque and
disagreeable noises, which amused me so much that I had to turn away
my face and look at the water again to avoid laughing. "Sir," said the
old pilot, who observed the contortions of mirth by which I was moved,
"vil you have some schnapps? I dink schnapps is goot for de sea-sick."
"Thank you," said I, the tears streaming from my eyes, "I won't have
any just now." "Vel, 'twon't last long, any how," suggested the
good-natured monster. "By'm-by we be up to Vaxholm--in pout two hours.
Dere's land! Don't you see it?" I saw it, and right glad I was too,
for it is always refreshing to see land from the deck of a steamer. In
half an hour more we entered a smooth stretch of water, and soon the
wood-covered islands and shores of Sweden were close ahead.
Passing the fortress of Waxholm, we entered the magnificent fjord or
arm of the sea which extends for a distance of ten or twelve miles up
to the city. The scenery on this part of the route is very fine. All
along the shores of the main land and adjacent islands rugged cliffs
of granite reared their hoary crests over the waters of the fjord.
Forests of oak and pine cover the rolling background, and beautiful
villas, with parterres and blooming gardens, peep from every glen.
Sometimes for miles the solitude of the forests and rock-bound shores
is unbroken, save by an occasional fisherman's hut or an open patch
of green pasture; then suddenly, upon turning a point, a group of
red-roofed villas glimmer through the foliage; sail-boats are seen
gliding over the water with gay companies of ladies and gentlemen from
the city enjoying the fresh breeze that sweeps up from the Gulf; now a
hay-boat or a clumsy lugger laden with wood drifts along lazily toward
the grand centre of trade; and as we approach nearer to the dim
smoke-cloud that hangs over the city, big and little craft gather
thicker and thicker before us, till the whole fjord seems alive with
masts and sails. Soon the outlines of the churches and castles break
through the dim distance, and, like some grand optical illusion, the
whole city gradually opens up before us.
To say that I was charmed with the first view of Stockholm would but
faintly express the feelings with which I gazed upon this beautiful
metropolis of the North. Though different in almost every essential
particular, it has been not unaptly compared to Venice; and certainly,
if the sparkling waters from which it seems to rise, the wood-covered
islands, the rich and varied outlines of its churches and castles, the
forests of shipping at its wharves, the many-colored sail-boats and
gondolas sweeping hither and thither, the glowing atmosphere, and
surrounding gardens, villas, temples, and pavilions, can entitle it to
that distinction, Stockholm well deserves to rank with the Queen City
of the Adriatic.
The landing for the Baltic steamers is at the head quay called the
Skepsbron, which in summer is well lined with shipping, and presents
rather an animated appearance. Very little formality is observed in
regard to the baggage of passengers, and passports are not required, or
at least no demand was made upon me for mine. All I had to do was to
show my knapsack to the custom-house officer, who put a chalk-mark upon
it, signifying, no doubt, that it contained nothing contraband; after
which I stepped ashore, and, aided by a friendly fellow-passenger,
found lodgings at a dirty little hotel close by, called the "Stadt
Frankfort." If there is any worse place to be found in Stockholm, it
must be the very worst on the face of the earth, for the "Stadt
Frankfort" is next thing to it. Being dirty and foul of smell, and
abounding in vermin, of course the charges are, as usual in such cases,
proportionally high, for which reason I recommend it to any gentleman
traveling in this direction whose main object is to get rid of his
money for an equivalent of filth, fleas, bugs, bad bread, and worse
coffee. The main part of the city, embracing the King's Palace, the
Bourse, the Church of St. Nicholas, the Barracks and public buildings,
is built upon an island fronting the Baltic on the one side and the
Malar Lake on the other. This is the most populous and interesting
part, though the streets are narrow and irregular, and the houses
generally old and dilapidated, with dark, gloomy fronts, and a very
fishy and primitive expression of countenance. The new parts of the
city, called the Normalm to the north and the Sodmalm to the south,
which are connected with the island by bridges, have some fine streets
and handsome rows of buildings in the modern style, especially the
Normalm, which contains the King's Garden, the Arsenal, the
Opera-house, and the principal hotels and residences of the foreign
ministers. This part of Stockholm will compare favorably with second or
third-rate cities in Germany; for it must be borne in mind that,
striking as the external aspect of Stockholm is, the interior is very
far from sustaining the illusion of grandeur cast around it by the
scenic beauties of its position. In nothing is the traveler more
disappointed than the almost total absence of business excitement. With
the exception of a few stevedores at work on the wharves and a trifling
jostle at the market-places, the whole city seems to be sitting down in
its Northern solitude, waiting, like Mr. Micawber, for something to
turn up. In some parts one may walk half a mile without hearing a sound
save the echo of his own footsteps. It is, emphatically, a "slow"
place--so slow, indeed, compared with the marts of commerce to which I
had been accustomed in California (especially the city of Oakland),
that I was constantly impressed with the idea that every body was fast
asleep, and that if three or four of them should happen to wake at the
same time, it would be fearfully startling to hear their eyelids crack
open and the hollow streets echo to their yawns.
But don't understand this as a reflection upon the Swedish race. They
are industrious and energetic when occasion requires, but, like all
people who live at the extreme North, acquire tropical habits of
indolence from the climate. During the tedious winters, when the days
are but six hours long, all who can afford it become torpid, like
frogs, and lie up in their houses till the summer sun thaws them out.
Balls, parties, and sleigh-riding occasionally rouse them up, but
lethargy is the general rule. The warm weather comes very suddenly,
and then the days are eighteen hours long. This being the season of
outdoor pleasure, it is spent in visits to the country or lounging
about the gardens, sitting on spring benches and enjoying the
sunshine.
The Swedish soldiers are a fine-looking race of men, far superior in
stature and general appearance to the soldiers of Russia. They are
well drilled, bold, and manly, and have fine faces, full of spirit and
intelligence. Wherever these men are led, they will now, as in past
times, give the enemies of their country some trouble. I consider them
the finest soldiers in Northern Europe.
The general aspect of the citizens of Stockholm is that of extreme
plainness and simplicity. I take them to be an honest, substantial,
and reliable people, well educated and intelligent; satisfied with
themselves and the world, and proud of their country and its history.
Politeness is a national characteristic. Every person, of high and low
degree, upon entering a shop, takes off his hat, and remains with
uncovered head while making his purchase. Gentlemen who meet on the
street knock the tops of their "tiles" against their knees, and
continue to bow at each other long after they have passed. In feature
and general appearance the Swedes are handsomer than the southern
races of Europe, and for that reason wear a nearer resemblance to the
Americans. I saw several men in Stockholm who would not have done
discredit to California, in point of fine faces and commanding
figures. The Swedish ladies are proverbially beautiful. It was really
refreshing, after my visit to Russia, to see so many pretty women as I
met here. Light hair, oval features, sparkling blue eyes, and forms of
intoxicating grace and beauty--ah me! why should such dangers be
permitted to threaten the defenseless traveler with instant
destruction, when the law provides for his protection against other
disasters by land and sea, assault and battery, false imprisonment and
highway robbery? Yet here were lovely creatures, gliding about at
large, shooting mutilation and death out of their bright blue eyes,
and apparently as indifferent to the slaughter they committed as if it
were the finest fun in the world! Talk of your French beauties, your
Italian beauties, your Spanish beauties! Give me, for the
impersonation of soul expressed in the human form divine--for features
"woven from the music of the spheres and painted with the hues of the
aurora borealis"--a Swedish beauty, the nearest approach upon earth to
an American beauty, which, being altogether angelic, must ever remain
the highest type of perfection known to mankind.
I don't wonder Swedenborg made so many heavens for his female
characters. His "conjugal felicity" required at least seven. One small
heaven, constructed upon the Swedish plan, would certainly afford but
limited accommodations for all the beauties of Stockholm.
A day or two after my arrival in Stockholm I called to Mr. Fristadius,
the American consul, from whom I obtained the latest news in reference
to the progress of the rebellion. Accustomed as we are in the United
States to read the newspapers every morning, wherever we may happen
to be, the deprivations in this respect to which an American traveler
in Europe is subjected must be experienced to be fully appreciated.
Even in the principal cities of Germany it is difficult to find a
newspaper that contains any thing more than a notice of the price of
stocks, a few telegraphic items about the petty court movements of
neighboring cities, a rehash of slander upon our country from the
London _Times_, or an item of news about the war, in which the states
are misplaced, the names misspelled, and the most important points
omitted. I do not think there is a village press in California that
would not be ashamed to turn out such trashy little sheets as are
issued in Frankfort; and as for the matter of fairness and honesty, it
is rare to find an independent newspaper in any part of Europe. To
suppress truth and subserve some military or financial interest is the
business for which they are paid. Making due allowance for party
prejudices, you may guess at the truth in most of our American
journals, but it would be a waste of time to search for it in the
newspapers published on this side of the water. While they studiously
refrain from indecorous language, they are corrupt and unreliable
beyond any thing known in California, and have not even the merit of
being energetic and entertaining liars. This is the case in Russia and
Finland as well as in Germany. Where the press is subjected to a rigid
censorship, it is of course useless to look for reliable information,
and as for late intelligence, it does not travel through official
bureaus. Before leaving Frankfort I had news to the 28th of June. A
week after my arrival at St. Petersburg the same news was promulgated
in that city. On my return from Moscow I had the pleasure of reading
the details in an American newspaper. One or two mutilated telegraphic
dispatches seemed to sharpen my appetite during the trip to Revel,
Helsingfors, Abo, and Stockholm; and now, arrived at the head-quarters
of Swedish civilization, after searching in vain for a late English or
American newspaper at the principal cafés, I was compelled to make
application to our consul, in the faint hope that he might be an
occasional reader of that ephemeral species of literature.
Fortunately, Mr. Fristadius had spent some time in the United States,
and learned to appreciate the magnitude and importance of the struggle
in which we were engaged.
I had the pleasure, during my sojourn in Stockholm, of getting a
glimpse of Swedish social life in one of its most agreeable phases.
Mr. Fristadius, who is a Swede by birth and education, and occupies a
prominent position as one of the leading iron-merchants of Stockholm,
was kind enough to invite me to an entertainment at his villa,
situated about four miles from the city, on one of the prettiest
little islands in the Malar Lake.
At an early hour in the afternoon, the company, which consisted of
thirty or forty ladies and gentlemen, assembled by appointment at a
wharf near one of the principal bridges, where a small steam-boat
belonging to Mr. Fristadius was in waiting. I was a little astonished,
not to say taken aback, at the display of elegant dresses, liveried
servants, and white kid gloves that graced the occasion, and looked at
my dusty and travel-worn coat, slouched hat, and sunburnt hands--for
which there was no remedy--with serious thoughts of a hasty retreat.
One doesn't like to be a savage among civilized people; yet, if one
undertakes to travel with little baggage and less money, what can he
do, unless he holds himself aloof from the world altogether, which is
not the best way of seeing it? There was no time for reflection,
however; the whistle was blowing, and we were hurried on board by our
kind host, who seemed determined to make every body as happy as
possible. The trip down the lake was delightful. On either side the
hills and islands were dotted with villas and gardens; sail-boats were
skimming over the water with gay parties intent on pleasure; the views
of the city from every turn were picturesque beyond description, and
the weather was quite enchanting. As we swept along on our course, the
gentlemen of the party, who were nearly all Swedes, united in a wild
and beautiful Scandinavian glee, the mellow strains of which swept
over the water, and were echoed from the wooded islands and shores of
the lake with a magnificent effect. Whether it was the scenery, the
weather, or the singing, or all combined, I could scarcely tell, but
this little trip was certainly an episode in life to be remembered
with pleasure in after years. In about half an hour we drew near a
perfect little Paradise of an island, upon which, half hidden in
shrubbery and flowers, stood the villa of our friend, Mr. Fristadius.
Here were winding graveled walks overhung by rich foliage; beds of
flowers in full bloom; grottoes of rock laved by the waters of the
lake; immense boulders of granite surmounted by rustic pavilions;
hedges of privet and hawthorn to mark the by-paths; a miniature bridge
from the main island across to a smaller island, upon which stood an
aquatic temple for the fishing-boats and gondolas; with a wharf
jutting out into the deep water at which the little steam-boat landed.
Nothing could be more unique than the whole place. Nature and art
seemed to have united to give it the most captivating effects of
wildness, seclusion, comfort, and elegance. It was Crusoe-life
idealized. As we approached the landing-place, the interesting family
of our host, surrounded by numerous friends, stood upon a little
eminence awaiting our arrival. While we gazed with pleasurable
emotions at the pretty scene before us, a most delicate and
appropriate compliment was paid to our excellent minister, Mr.
Haldeman, and his accomplished wife, who were of the party. The
American flag was hoisted upon a pole near the landing by Mrs.
Fristadius, and the company with one accord arose and greeted with
three cheers this glorious emblem of liberty. I shall never forget the
mingled feelings of pride and pleasure with which I looked upon the
stars and stripes once more, after months of dreary depression in
countries where freedom is but a glimmering hope in the human heart.
But here in Sweden the spirit of our institutions is appreciated;
here I found myself surrounded by noble and trusty friends of the
American Union, loyal to their own liberal government, yet devoted to
the great cause of human freedom wherever it can exist consistently
with the progress of the times and the capacity of the people for
self-government. As the flag waved in the breeze, an inspiring song of
liberty burst from the joyous company--one of those soul-stirring
songs of Belman, which find a response in the breast of every
Swede--wild, impassioned, and patriotic, breathing in every word and
intonation the chivalrous spirit of men whose ancestry had fought
under the glorious banners of Gustavus Adolphus.
As soon as the song was concluded the little steam-boat drew up to the
wharf, where we were most kindly and cordially greeted by the family
of our host. After a pleasant ramble about the grounds we proceeded to
the house, which is situated on a picturesque eminence overlooking the
lake, and the adjacent shores and islands. Here, in a large and
elegant saloon, opening on all sides upon a spacious veranda, a
sumptuous collation was spread. The company lounged about without
ceremony, eating, drinking, and enjoying themselves as they pleased;
wit and wine flowed together, unrestrained by the slightest formality.
In the midst of our "feast of reason and flow of soul," Mr. Fristadius
made a neat and appropriate little speech of "welcome to all his
friends," which was followed by a song from the musical gentlemen;
after which he proposed a toast to a young married couple present.
This was followed by another song. Then there was a toast to the
American flag, another speech and a song, to which Mr. Haldeman, our
minister, responded in such terms of enthusiasm and complimentary
allusion to the Swedish nation that there was a general outburst of
applause. I had hoped, in view of my rustic garb, to escape notice,
and was snugly barricaded in a corner behind a table, looking on
quietly and enjoying the scene, when, to my great astonishment, a
toast was proposed "to the DISTINGUISHED TRAVELER FROM CALIFORNIA!"
In vain I looked about me to see if any prominent gentleman of my
acquaintance from California would step forward and answer to the
summons, when I was gently but firmly captured by our host, and duly
brought forth to respond to the charge! Never having made a speech in
my life, I could only seize hold of a wine-glass (which I think
belonged to somebody else), and in the confusion of the moment drink
spontaneously to the great traveler from California! Then there was an
inspiring glee from the lively young gentlemen who did the music.
Thus passed the time till dinner was over, when we adjourned to the
garden for coffee and cigars. Seated under the wide-spreading trees,
in the balmy air of this summer evening, we had songs and recitations
of Scandinavian poetry, anecdotes, and humorous dissertations till
nearly midnight. I do not remember that I ever participated in a more
rational or delightful entertainment. After a farewell glee to our
host we marched down to the wharf, where the boat was in waiting, and
embarked for Stockholm. I can only add that I was charmed with the
refinement and intelligence of Swedish society, as far as I could
judge of it by this casual glimpse. From many of the guests I received
cordial invitations to prolong my sojourn, and the next morning found
two or three of the gentlemen in readiness to show me every thing of
interest about the city.
We visited the Museum, where there is an interesting assortment of
Scandinavian antiquities, and the palace, and some half a dozen other
places, all of which came in the regular routine of sight-seeing; but
the fact is, I am getting dreadfully tired of this systematic way of
lionizing the cities of Europe. I turn pale at the sight of a museum,
shudder at a church, feel weak in the knees at the bare thought of a
picture-gallery, and as for antiquities, they make my flesh creep.
Between you and myself, dear reader, I wouldn't give a sou-markee for
all the old bones gathered up during the last eighteen centuries,
unless to start a bone-mill and sell the dust at a remunerative
profit.
After all, the more I saw of Stockholm the more the blues began to
creep over me. It is depressingly slow in these far Northern cities;
so slow, indeed, I don't wonder every thing has a mildewed and
sepulchral aspect. The houses look like slimy tombs in a grave-yard;
the atmosphere, when the sun does not happen to shine--which is more
than half the time--is dank and flat, and hangs upon one's spirits
like a nightmare, crushing out by degrees the very germ of vitality. I
am not surprised that paralysis and hip-disease are frightfully
prevalent in Stockholm.
Give me California forever--the land of sunshine and progress. I have
seen no country like it yet. When I think of old times there, a
terrible home-sickness takes possession of me. So help me, friends and
fellow-citizens, I'd sooner be a pack-mule in California with a raw
back, and be owned by a Mexican greaser, employed week in and week out
in carrying barrels of whisky over the Downieville trail, fed on three
grains of barley per day, and turned out to browse on quartz rock and
sage-bushes every night--I'd rather be a miserable little burro,
kicked and cuffed by a Mariposa Chinaman--I'd rather be a dog and bay
the moon in the city of Oakland, or a toad and feed upon the vapors of
a dungeon at San Quentin--I'd rather be a lamp-post on the corner of
Montgomery Street, San Francisco, and be leaned against, and hugged,
and kissed alternately by every loafer out of the Montgomery
saloon--I'd rather be any of these than a human being compelled to
live permanently in Europe, with a palace in every city, town, and
village, and an income of fifty thousand dollars a day to defray
expenses; so don't be surprised if I should turn up again one of these
fine mornings on the Pacific coast. The only difficulty at present
is--a collapse in the financial department.
CHAPTER XXV.
WALKS ABOUT STOCKHOLM.
If you expect any very lively or striking pictures of Stockholm from a
tourist like myself, whose besetting trouble in life is a
constitutional melancholy, I am afraid you will be disappointed. It is
beyond doubt one of the most agreeable cities in the North, and, so
far as public institutions are concerned, affords a fine field of
research for the antiquarian and the naturalist. Any enterprising
gentleman who desires to improve his mind by the study of Puffendorf
can here find the original. Linnæus, Berzelius, and others will
materially assist him in grasping at the mysteries of animated
creation; and if he be of a poetical turn, he can enjoy Belman in the
unadulterated Scandinavian metre. For me, however, the public museums
and libraries possessed only an external interest. I would gladly have
devoted the remainder of my life to Scandinavian researches, but,
having several other important matters to attend to, I was reluctantly
forced to give up the idea. The main object at present was to escape
from "an eternal lethargy of woe," which seemed to grow worse and
worse every day. I really had nothing particular to afflict me, yet I
both felt and looked like "a man sore acquaint with grief." Day after
day I wandered about the streets in search of excitement. All in vain;
such a luxury is unknown to strangers in Stockholm. I visited the
fruit-markets, jostled about among the simple and kind-hearted
peasants, bought bunches of cherries and baskets of raspberries from
the pretty peasant-girls, and then stood eating my way into their
acquaintance, while they laughed, and talked, and wondered where in
the world such a strange man came from, and when I told them I came
from California they looked incredulous, having probably never of such
a country. Then I strolled down through the fish-market, where there
were a great many queer fish exposed for sale by ancient and slimy old
men and women, whose hands and aprons were covered with fish-scales,
and whose faces had a very fishy expression. They offered me fish in
every shape--skinned, gutted, chopped up, or whole, just as I pleased
to buy them. One wrinkled old woman, with a voice much broken by
shouting against the Gulf storms from high rocks, or some such cause,
called my attention to a monster fish that must have weighed at least
sixty pounds, and insisted upon letting me have it at a reduced price.
I shook my head and smiled. In that smile I suppose the sagacious old
fishwoman discovered the pliancy of my disposition, for she
immediately commenced a wild harangue on the merits of the fish,
scarcely a word of which I understood. Two or three times I started to
leave, but each time she made a motion to detain me. The fact is, I
was afraid she would get hold of me with her fishy hands, and was
considerably embarrassed what to do. The price of the fish was
reasonable enough--only two marks (about forty cents); but I had no
use for it, and did not like to carry it to my hotel. The worst of it
was, the old woman thought the price was the only obstacle, and
finally came down to a mark and a half. What was to be done? From
Billingsgate to Stockholm, it is notorious that a disappointed
fishwoman is a very dangerous and uncertain foe to be encountered by
any man, however brave. She began to get excited at the bare prospect
of having taken so much trouble for nothing. Several of her friends
began to gather round. A cold tremor ran through my frame. There
seemed to be no possible way of evading the purchase without creating
an unpleasant scene. To make an end of it, I bought the fish. With a
bunch of grass wrapped around its tail, I made my way through the
crowd. To be sure, I felt a little ashamed to be perambulating the
streets of a strange city with a big fish in my hand, yet I could not
well throw it down on the sidewalk, and was afraid, if I offered it to
some little boy, he might stick his tongue in his cheek, and ask me if
I saw any thing green in the corner of his eye. The case was getting
worse and worse every moment. People stopped and looked at me as I
passed. My arm was getting tired. Fortunately, I was close to the
quay. A happy thought struck me; I walked over to the water's edge and
cast the fish into his native element. "Go," said I, in the language
of my uncle Toby; "there's room enough in the world for you and me."
What the by-standers thought of the act I did not wait to see. It was
enough that I was clear of a very unpleasant companion, though an
ancient and fish-like odor remained with me for some time after. As
for the fish, I doubt if he ever came to life; he must have been dead
for several days when I bought him, judging by a taint upon my hands,
which the best soap could not eradicate.
After this I rambled gloomily along the quays, and wondered what every
body was waiting for. There were small vessels enough lying at the
wharves, but every body on board seemed to be taking it easy. Cooks
were lying asleep on the galleys; skippers were sitting on the poop,
smoking socially with their crews; small boys, with red night-caps on
their heads, were stretched out upon the hatchways, playing push-pin,
and eating crusts of black bread; stevedores, with dusty sacks on
their shoulders, were lounging about on the wharf, waiting for
something in the way of trade to turn up; shabby citizens, who seemed
to be out of profitable employment, were sitting on the loose timbers
overlooking the water, bobbing for fish, and never catching any so far
as I could perceive; and scattering crowds of idlers were strolling
idly along like myself, in search of something particular to look at,
but, failing to discover it, they looked about at things generally,
and then strolled on to look at something else. I sighed at the
stagnation of business, and hoped it would never be my fate to be
engaged in mercantile affairs in Stockholm. Before the Gotha Canal was
completed this was a very brisk city; but since that period,
Gottenburg, being more accessible, has monopolized much of the
European trade. The principal trade of Stockholm now consists of
exports of iron, and imports of sugar, coffee, and liquors. Throughout
the interior the peasantry manufacture most of the articles required
for their own use, such as clothing, implements of husbandry, etc., so
that they are not large consumers of foreign commodities. Finding it
very dull in town, I walked out in the suburbs, which are pretty and
picturesque, though primitive enough to be a thousand miles from a
commercial city. The houses are chiefly constructed of wood, painted
yellow, with red roofs, and neatly ornamented with verandas; and the
people have a quaint and simple look, as if they knew but little of
the world, and did not care much to trouble their heads about the
progress of events. Here as well as elsewhere, children continue to be
born in great numbers, and groups of them were to be seen before every
house playing in the mud just as little cotton-headed children play
all over the world. I say cotton-headed, because these were of the
blue-eyed, white-haired race who have a natural affinity for muddy
places, and whose cheeks have a natural propensity to gather bloom and
dirt at the same time.
I struck out on the high points of the Normalm, and on one of them
discovered an old church, surrounded by trees, with benches
conveniently placed beneath their shade for weary pedestrians. Here
were family groups quietly enjoying the fresh air, the men smoking and
drinking, while the women and girls economized time by knitting and
sewing. I took a vacant seat and looked down over the city. Surely a
prettier prospect could not exist upon earth. There lay the city of
the sea outspread beneath, its irregular streets, quaint old houses
and churches covering every available space; the numerous wooded
islands in the vicinity dotted with villas; sloops and boats floating
dreamily on the Malar Lake, and larger vessels gliding over the waters
of the Baltic; dense forests of pine dim in the distance; and over all
a strangely colored Northern light, that gave the scene something of a
spectral aspect. Yet the spirit of repose that seemed cast over this
fair scene was absolutely oppressive to one like myself, accustomed to
an active life. From the high points I wandered down into the low
places, through narrow and tortuous streets; gazed into the stables
and cow-houses; watched the tinners, and coppersmiths, and shoemakers
as they wound up the labors of the day in their dingy little shops;
peered into the greasy little meatshops and antiquated grocery-stores;
studied the faces of the good people who slowly wended their way
homeward, and bowed to several old ladies out of pure kindliness and
good feeling; then wandered back into the public places, still pursued
by a green and yellow melancholy. I gazed steadfastly at the statues
of Gustavus Vasa, Charles XII., and Berzelius, and tried in vain to
remember something of their history. I went into the picture-shops,
took off my hat to small boys behind the counter, looked at the
pictures, and bought several, for which I had no earthly use; then I
went to the café on the bridge, drank coffee and cognac, and attempted
to read the Swedish newspapers, of which I understood every letter,
but not a word; after which I heard the whistle of a small steam-boat
at the end of the café garden, and ran down in a hurry to get on
board. The steam-boat was about equal to a good-sized yawl, and was
bound for some port unknown to me; but that made no difference. I
never see a boat of any kind going any where, or a locomotive, or a
carriage, or any thing that moves by steam, sails, horse-power, or
electricity, without feeling an unconquerable desire to be off too, so
that I very much fear, if I should come across a convict vessel bound
for Van Diemen's Land, it would be impossible for me to avoid jumping
on board and going with the crowd. In the present case it was
essentially necessary that I should keep moving. I was almost sinking
under the oppressive loneliness of the place. Rather than remain
another hour within the limits of such a dreary old city, I would have
taken passage in a tread-mill, and relied upon the force of
imagination to carry me to some other place. Nay, a hangman's cart on
the way to the gallows would have presented a strong temptation. In
saying this I mean nothing disrespectful to Birger Jarl, who founded
Stockholm, and made it his place of residence in 1260; nor to
Christina Gyllenstierna, who so heroically defended it against
Christian II. of Denmark in the sixteenth century; nor to Gustavus
Vasa, the brave liberator of Sweden; nor his noble and heroic
grandson, Gustavus Adolphus; nor any body else famous in Swedish
history; but the truth of it is, Sweden at the present day is
essentially a home country, and the people are too domestic in their
habits and modes of thought to afford any peculiar interest to a
casual tourist. I like their simple and genial manners, and respect
them for their sterling integrity, yet these are traits of no great
value to one who travels so far out of the world in search of objects
of more stirring interest. The ordinary traveler, who has no time to
dive very deep beneath the surface of human life, is not satisfied to
find things nearly as he finds them at home; streets, shops, and
houses undistinguished by any peculiarity save the inconveniences and
oddities of age; people every where around him who dress like all
other civilized people, and possess the standard virtues and
weaknesses of humanity; the proprieties of life decently observed, and
loyalty to forms and time-honored usages a national characteristic. A
Swede would no more violate a rule of etiquette, smile or bow out of
place, eat a beefsteak or drink his schnapps at an unusual hour, or
strike out any thing novel or original in the way of pleasure, profit,
or enterprise, than a German. The court circle is the most formal in
Europe, and the upper classes of society are absolute slaves to
conventionality. A presentation at court is an event of such signal
importance that weeks of preparation are required for the impressive
ordeal; and when the tailor, and shoemaker, and the jeweler have done
their part, and the unhappy victim, all bedeviled with finery and
befrogged with lace, is brought into the presence of royalty, it is a
miracle if he gets through without committing some dire offense
against the laws of etiquette. Fine carriages, coats of arms,
uniforms, and badges of office, are held in high veneration; and while
the government is liberal and the people profess to be independent,
their slavish devotion to rank, dress, and etiquette surpasses any
thing I saw in Russia. With this, to be sure, is mingled a certain
simplicity of manner and kindliness of expression toward inferiors
which sometimes lead the stranger to believe that he is among a
democratic people, but they are as far from democracy as the Prussians
or the Austrians. The very affability of the superior to the inferior
is the best evidence of the inseparable gulf that lies between them.
In Russia there is the charm of barbarism, savagery, filth, and show;
the people are loose, ferocious, daring, and wild; here in Sweden, the
quiet, decent, home-aspect of the people, their rigid observance of
the rules of etiquette, their devotion to royalty, law, and order, are
absolutely depressing. In the abstract, many traits in their character
are worthy of admiration, but as a traveler I detest this kind of
civilization. Give me a devil or a savage at all times, who outrages
the rules of society and carries an advertisement of character on his
back. As an artist I can make something of him, either in the way of
copy or pencil-sketches.
Which brings me back to my situation, in the natural course of events.
The whistle blows. The little steam-boat is about to stop at the
landing-place of the Djurgaard. The engineer, smutty and oily with
hard service, gives a turn to the crank, pulls an iron bar with a
polished handle, and then pushes it; the tea-kettle boiler fizzes and
whizzes, and lets off steam; the paddles stop paddling; the gentlemen
passengers stand up and adjust their shirt collars; the ladies gather
their shawls around them, and pick up their scattered bundles; with a
whirl and a jerk we are alongside the wharf, and the captain jumps
from the bow with a rope in his hand, and makes all fast to a
logger-head. And now step ashore, if you please, ladies and gentlemen,
and let us take a stroll through the deer garden, where
"The ash and warrior oak
Cast anchor in the rifted rock."
The walks through this beautiful park (said to be the finest attached
to any capital in Europe) are broad, and handsomely graded. Grand old
forest-trees on either side make "a boundless contiguity of shade"
over the greensward. Pavilions and rustic summer-houses stand on the
high points of rock, commanding magnificent views of the adjacent
islands and waters of the lake. Flower-gardens are numerous, and every
nook and dell contains some place of refreshment, where the gay
company who frequent these delightful grounds in the long summer
evenings can drink their tea and enjoy the varied beauties of the
scene. Wandering through these sylvan glades, the eye is continually
charmed with the rare combinations of natural and artificial beauties
scattered around in every direction with such wonderful prodigality.
At one moment you imagine yourself in a wilderness, hundreds of miles
from any human habitation, so dense are the shades of the grand old
forest-trees, and so wild and rugged the moss-covered rocks; a few
steps bring you suddenly upon some fairy scene, where palaces and
temples, gilded carriages, gayly-dressed companies of ladies and
gentlemen, and groups of children sporting upon the grass, dispel the
illusion. Ascending to the highest points by the narrow and tortuous
by-paths, I could almost fancy myself in the midst of the Coast Range,
so perfect was the isolation; then coming out suddenly upon some
projecting cliff, the change of scene from rugged grandeur to the
perfection of civilization was absolutely magical. Vegetation in this
northern region, where the summer are so short and warm, flourishes
with an almost tropical luxuriance. The melting of the snows in
spring, followed by heavy rains and sudden heat, causes the earth to
give forth its products with a prodigality that compensates in some
degree for the long and dreary winters. Trees burst into leaf as if by
magic; flowers shoot up and bloom in a few weeks; the grass, enriched
by the snows, springs forth and covers the earth like a gorgeous
carpet of velvet. All nature rejoices in the coming of the long summer
days. The birds sing in the groves; the bees hum merrily around the
flowers; the gay butterflies flit through the sunbeams; and day and
night are an almost continued period of revelry for all those
beautiful and ephemeral creatures that droop and die with the flowers.
I have nowhere seen such a profusion of intensely rich green and such
wonderfully deep shades as in the neighborhood of Stockholm. It is
almost oppressive to one accustomed to California scenery, where the
whole face of the country wears a dry red-and-yellowish hue in summer.
Strange how one's tastes change by association! I well remember when I
first entered the Golden Gate, in August, 1849, after a long and
dreary voyage round Cape Horn. Glad as I was to see land once more, it
struck me that I had never looked upon so barren and desolate a
country. The hill-sides had the appearance of parched and sodless
deserts. Yet I soon learned to like that warm glow. I slept upon those
parched hills, breathed the invigorating air, and felt the inspiration
of California life. I would not now exchange the summer drapery of our
hills and valleys for the deepest green upon earth. To my present
frame of mind there is something flat and chilling in this redundancy
of verdure that reminds one of death and the grave-yard. The
moss-covered rocks jutting from the cold, grassy earth; the dripping
fern; the pale, flitting gleams of sunshine struggling through the
depths of foliage; the mould that seems to hang in the air--all these
strike me as death-like. I long for the vital glow of a more genial
sun, whose all-pervading light is reflected from the rich golden
earth, shooting health and vigor through every fibre of the frame,
permeating body and soul with its effulgence. Such intensity of light,
such warmth of colors, fill the dullest mind with inspiration; the
blood is quickened in its circulation; the respiration is full and
free; the intellect becomes clearer and sharper; the whole man is
quickened into the highest condition of mental and physical vitality.
Is it a matter of wonder, then, that the people of California should
be brave, generous, and loyal--that they should have a high sense of
right, and an undying scorn of wrong? I hold that the species is
improved by the climate and the country--that stronger men and better
men are now undergoing the process of development in California than
in any other country on the face of the earth. If we live fast and die
suddenly, it is the natural consequence of increased bodily and mental
vigor, which too often leads to excesses, but which, under proper
training, must eventually lead to the highest moral and intellectual
achievements. The fault does not lie in our climate. I have yet seen
none to equal it North or South--not even in Italy. I do not think the
climate of Sweden is conducive to longevity, or extraordinary mental
or bodily vigor. Indeed, the same may be said of any climate abounding
in such rigorous extremes. The Swedes, it is true, lead a placid and
easy life, content with ordinary comforts, and worried by no exciting
or disquieting ambitions; hence they enjoy good health, and generally
get through the usual span allotted to man. If the same sanitary rules
were observed in our country, there would be less sickness and fewer
untimely deaths. Dissipation is not rare in Sweden, especially in the
capital cities, but it is more methodical with us. The people have
certain times and occasions for getting drunk; they make a regular
business of it. Virulent and disgusting diseases are also prevalent
among them, so that between the rigors of climate and other causes
less excusable, they frequently appear old and decrepit before their
time. That among the middle classes there are fine-looking men and
beautiful women, is true; that in literature, science, and music, they
can boast names that will go down to posterity, is a fact that can not
be denied; but I think such a climate and the habits engendered by it
are inimical to the highest order of physical and mental development
among the masses. Hence we find throughout the country many diseased
and deformed persons of both sexes; many weakly and not a few
imbecile. The peasants are not so hardy and robust as I expected to
find them; and I was told by competent judges, better informed than I
could hope to become during so brief a sojourn, that they are
progressively degenerating year after year, and can not now compare
with the peasants of former times.
To say that I was charmed with my ramble through the Djurgaard would
but faintly express the pleasure I derived from my visit to this
beautiful park. Of all the resorts for recreation that I have yet seen
in Northern Europe, I give it the palm for natural beauty and tasteful
cultivation. In this the Swedes excel. Their villas, gardens, and
parks are unsurpassed, and no people in the world better understand
how to enjoy them.
Late in the evening I returned to my hotel, delighted with all I had
seen. I was anxious to extend my rambles to Upsala, and to visit more
in detail the various beautiful islands and places of interest in the
vicinity of Stockholm; but the season was advancing, and I was
reluctantly compelled to push on toward Norway.
CHAPTER XXVI.
THE GOTHA CANAL.
On a pleasant morning in August I called for my bill at the "Stadt
Frankfort." The landlady, a blooming young woman of rather vivacious
and persuasive manners, wished me such a delightful journey, and
looked so sorry I was going, that I could not muster resolution enough
to complain of the various candles that were never burnt, and the
numerous services that were never rendered, except in the bill; and
had she charged me for washing my own face and putting on my own
boots, I fear the result would have been the same. Wishing her a happy
future, I shouldered my knapsack, which by this time contained only
two shirts, an old pair of stockings, and some few flowers and stones
from celebrated places, and, thus accoutred for the journey, made my
way down to Riddarholm Quay. In a dingy old office, abounding in
cobwebs, a dingy old gentleman, who spoke English, sold me a
second-class ticket for Gottenburg. The little steamer upon which I
had the good fortune to secure a passage was called the Admiral Von
Platten, a name famous in the history of Swedish enterprise. It was
Von Platten who, in 1808, took charge of the great work of internal
improvement known as the West Gotha Canal, and by the aid of Telford,
the celebrated English engineer, carried it into successful operation
in 1822. The project of connecting the lakes of Wenern and Wettern,
and forming a water communication all the way between Stockholm and
Gottenburg, was entertained at a very early day by the different
sovereigns and scientific men of Sweden. Bishop Brask in 1516,
Gustavus I., Charles IX., Swedenborg, Gustavus Adolphus, and others,
took particular interest in it, and some progress was made in the
building of locks and opening of short passages up to the beginning of
the present century. Daniel Thunberg contributed materially to the
opening of the route between Wenern and the Baltic; and Colonel N.
Eriksson, the celebrated engineer whose reputation stands so high in
the United States, had the direction of the work for many years. It
was not, however, till 1844 that the entire work was fully completed,
although some years prior to that time the two seas were connected and
open to navigation. The immense expense of this enterprise; the
extraordinary natural obstacles that have been overcome; the patience
and perseverance with which it has been carried into practical
operation; the magnitude and durability of the work, can only be
appreciated by one who has made the trip through Sweden by this route.
It is certainly the grandest triumph recorded in Swedish history. It
will exist and benefit generations to come, when the names of her
kings, warriors, and statesmen shall be known only to antiquarians.
The steamers now plying on this route are small, but well arranged for
the accommodation of passengers. There is a first and second cabin,
and a restaurant at which the traveler can call for what he desires,
and, provided his tastes are not eccentric, generally get what he
calls for. The waiters are simple-minded, kind-hearted, and sociable;
sit down and gossip with the passengers (at least those of the second
class), and, what seems rather novel and amusing to a stranger, leave
the bill to be made out and summed up by the passengers themselves. A
general account-book is left open in the cabin, in which it is
expected every traveler will set down his name and keep his own
account. At the end of the trip, the head waiter goes the rounds of
the cabin and deck, book in hand, and asks the passengers to designate
their names and sum up their accounts. Nobody seems to think of
cheating or being cheated. There is something so primitive in this way
of dealing on a public highway between two commercial cities, that I
was quite charmed with it, and have some thoughts of recommending it
to the California Steam Navigation Company. Just think what a pleasure
it would be to travel from San Francisco to Sacramento, and keep the
record of your own bitters and cigars, to say nothing of your supper
and berth! I am certain the plan would be approved by a majority of
the traveling public throughout the state.
The company on board these little Swedish steamers is generally plain,
sociable, and intelligent. Among the passengers I met many who spoke
English and German, and few who did not speak at least one language
in addition to their own. In midsummer the trip from Stockholm to
Gottenburg usually takes three days, though it is sometimes
accomplished in two. The distance is about three hundred and seventy
miles by the shortest route, through the Wettern and Wenern lakes.
Time, however, is no great object in Sweden, and a day or two more or
less makes no great difference. The beauty of the scenery, and the
diversity of land and water, render the trip one of the most agreeable
in Northern Europe, and for one I can safely say it would have pleased
me all the better had it lasted longer.
Leaving the Riddarholm Quay, our route lay for the first four hours
through the Malar Lake. The weather was delightful, and there was
scarcely a ripple on the water. Sloops and wood-boats lay floating
upon its glassy surface without perceptible motion. All along on
either side beautiful villas peeped from the umbrageous shores and
islands. Behind us, the city loomed up in all its queenly beauty, the
numerous churches and public buildings presented in majestic outline
against the sky, while the forest of shipping at the quays added a
more stirring and vital interest to the scene. As we turned the last
promontory to the right, and took a lingering look at this charming
"city of the sea," I thought I had never enjoyed a more enchanting
_coup d'oeil_. The suburbs of Stockholm; the numerous little islands,
with their rich green shrubbery; the villas and gardens; the sparkling
vistas of water, form a combination of beauties rarely to be met with
in any other part of the world. No wonder the Swedes regard their
capital as a paradise. I fully agree with them that in summer it
deserves all their praise; but I should prefer a warmer and more
genial paradise for winter quarters. Earthen stoves and hot-air
furnaces are not in any of the seven heavens that occur in my
imagination.
Before many hours we passed a point somewhat celebrated in Swedish
history. On a high peak of rock, hanging upon a pole, is a prodigious
iron hat, said to be the identical "stove-pipe" worn by one of the old
Swedish kings--a terrible fellow, who was in the habit of slaying
hundreds of his enemies with his own hand. This famous old king must
have been a giant in stature. Judging by his hat, as Professor Agassiz
judges of fish by their scales, he must have been forty feet high, by
about ten or fifteen broad; and if his strength corresponded with his
gigantic proportions, I fancy he could have knocked the gable-end off
a house with a single blow of his fist, or kicked the head out of a
puncheon of rum, and swallowed the contents at a single draught,
without the least difficulty. His hat probably weighs a hundred
pounds--enough to give any ordinary man a severe headache. Here it has
stood for centuries, in commemoration of his last struggle. Besieged
by an overwhelming force of his enemies, as the chronicle goes, he
slew some thousands of them, but, being finally hard pressed, he lost
his iron hat in the fight, and then plunged headlong into the lake.
Some historians assert that he took to water to avoid capture; but I
incline to the opinion myself that he did it to cool his head. At all
events, the record ends at this point. We are unable to learn any
thing more of his fate. These Northern races are strong believers in
their own aboriginal history, and although there may be much in this
that would require the very best kind of testimony before a California
jury, the slightest hint of a doubt as to its truth would probably be
taken as a personal offense by any public spirited Swede. In that
respect, thank fortune, I am gifted with a most accommodating
disposition. I can believe almost any thing under the sun. Giants and
genii are nothing to what my credulity is capable of; and as for
fairies and hobgoblins, I can swallow them by wholesale. There is only
one thing in this world that I entertain the least doubt about--the
title to my house and lot in Oakland. Upon that point I question if it
ever will be possible for human evidence to satisfy me. Three times I
paid for it, and each time every body considered it perfect except
myself. I expect daily to hear of another title, of which I trust some
enterprising gentleman in want of funds will advise me. It will be a
source of consolation to know that I was not mistaken.
Situated near the entrance of the canal, on the left bank, is the
beautiful little town of Soderkoping, celebrated for its mineral
springs, to which the people of Stockholm resort in great numbers
during the summer for health and recreation. The scene as we
approached was very pretty. Pine and oak forests cover the granite
hills for many miles around, relieved by occasional openings dotted
with villas, gardens, and farms; and the dark red wooden houses of the
town have a singularly pleasant effect glimmering in the sunbeams
through the rich masses of foliage by which they are surrounded.
Groups of visitors stood at the locks awaiting the news from the city,
or anxiously looking out for the familiar faces of relatives and
friends, while the lock-men slowly and methodically performed their
accustomed routine of labors. Soderkoping is a very ancient town, and
in former times enjoyed considerable importance as a mart of commerce.
Passing through a narrow stretch of canal, some miles in length,
overhung by trees and rocks on the right, and affording some pleasant
views of the rich valley to the left, the banks gradually widened till
we entered a beautiful little lake, leading, after a short passage, to
the waters of the Roxen. The narrow parts of the canal are difficult
of navigation, owing to the various turns and the solid masses of rock
through which it is cut; and the steamer sometimes proceeds very
slowly, carefully feeling her way along, till an open space affords an
opportunity of going ahead at a more rapid rate. In the mean time the
passengers are all out on the decks, shaded by an awning, enjoying
themselves in the most unceremonious manner, laughing and talking in
groups, sipping their coffee, or promenading up and down to enjoy the
sweet-scented breeze from the neighboring hills. The Roxen Lake,
through which we next passed, is some seventeen miles long by seven
broad, and is justly regarded as one of the loveliest sheets of water
in all Sweden. The shores are neither very high nor very grand, but it
would be difficult to find any thing more charming than the rich
coloring of the rocks, their varied outlines, the luxuriance of the
forests, and the crystal clearness of the water. Villages and farms
are seen at occasional intervals in the distance, and sloops, with
their sails hanging idly against their masts, float upon the placid
surface of the lake as upon a mirror. Indeed, so perfect is the
inversion, that the eye can scarcely determine how much is real and
how much the result of optical illusion. Passing in sight of the town
of Linkoping, which lies to the left, we soon reached the entrance of
the West Gotha Canal, which here makes a direct ascent from the waters
of the Roxen of seventy-five feet. At this point there are eleven
locks, seven of which are closely connected, and the remainder
separated by short stretches of canal. Near at hand is a pretty little
village to the left, famous for its church, the Vretakloster, built in
the Gothic style in 1128, by Inge II., one of the early kings of
Sweden. While the steamer was slowly toiling through the locks, a
party of the passengers, including myself, paid a visit to the church,
and, aided by a venerable sacristan, saw all that was to be seen in
it, chief among which are the tombs of the kings and the arms of the
Douglas family, those warlike Scots who took such an active part in
the military exploits of Sweden during the Thirty Years' War. The walk
was a pleasant relief after our trip across the lake, and on our
return by a short cut to the upper locks we had a splendid view of the
wood-covered shore and glistening waters of the Roxen, now fading away
in the rich twilight. The steamer occupies about an hour and a half in
getting through the locks, and most of the passengers take advantage
of the delay to stroll about among the neighboring cottages and
gardens, and enjoy the various refreshments offered for sale at the
pavilions and tents erected near the upper extremity for the
accommodation of travelers. Fresh milk, raspberries, coffee, sweet
cakes, and ale are the principal articles furnished at these places.
Notwithstanding there was an abundant supply of luxuries on board,
every body seemed to be hungry and thirsty on getting ashore. The
rapidity with which the plates, cups, and glasses were emptied was
really surprising, and would have done credit to a crowd of
Californians, who, I think, can eat more and drink more in a given
time than any race of men upon the earth.
The canal for some distance beyond the locks is quite narrow--often
barely wide enough for two steamers to pass. On the left the banks
rise to a considerable height, and then gradually decline till the
canal passes along a ridge, high above the surrounding country. The
effect in these places is very peculiar. The overhanging trees almost
unite their branches over the chimney of the steamer as she wends her
way slowly and steadily along; deep ravines extend downward into an
impenetrable abyss on either side; the sky glimmers through the
foliage in a horizontal line with the eye, and one can almost fancy
the world has been left below somewhere, and that a new highway has
been entered, upon which passengers steam their way to the stars. I am
quite certain, if we had kept a direct course long enough, we would
have reached the moon or some of the heavenly bodies.
It was late at night when we reached the Boren Lake, another of those
natural highways that lie between the Baltic and the North Sea. This
lake is comparatively small, but it abounds in rocky islands and
shoals which render the navigation through it rather intricate. A
pilot is taken on board at the entrance of each lake, and discharged
upon reaching the next canal station.
I remained on deck until midnight, enjoying the strange and beautiful
lights spread over the heavens in this latitude, and was reluctant
even then to lose the views during any part of the journey. Nature,
however, can not be defrauded of her legitimate demands even by the
beauties of scenery, and I went below to sleep out the remainder of
the night. My berth was in the forward cabin, where twenty or thirty
passengers were already stretched out--some on the tables, some on the
floor, and as many as could find room were snoring away in the
temporary berths erected on the seats for their accommodation. Toward
morning I was suddenly aroused by a strange and jarring motion of the
boat, accompanied by a grating sound. It seemed as if an earthquake
were throwing us up out of the water; yet the shocks were more sudden
and violent than any I had ever before experienced. Many of the
passengers were cast out of their berths, and the glass and crockery
in the pantry went crashing over the floor. Scarcely conscious whether
I was dreaming or awake, I grasped a post, and sprang out on a pile of
baggage, but was immediately precipitated across the cabin.
Fortunately I fell against the chambermaid, and suffered no injury.
Amid the confusion worse confounded, the screams of the women down
below, the crash of broken glasses, and the general struggle to get to
the cabin door, a German Jew sprang from his berth, and in frantic
accents begged that his life might be spared. "Take my money!" cried
he; "take it all, but for God's sake don't murder me!" The poor fellow
had evidently been aroused out of some horrible dream, and between
actual and imaginary dangers was now quite bewildered with terror. I
could not help but be amused at the grotesque expression of his face,
even at such a moment. It would have provoked a smile had we been
going to the bottom. There was no fear of that, however, as I quickly
ascertained. We were already hard and fast on the bottom. We had run
upon a sunken rock, and were so firmly wedged between its crevices
that it seemed likely we should remain there some time. As soon as all
was still, I quietly dressed myself and went on deck to take an
observation. It was just daylight. We were in the middle of a lake,
surrounded by small rocky islands. One of these was only a stone's
throw distant on our starboard. The stakes between which our course
lay were close by on the larboard. We had missed the channel by some
twenty or thirty yards, and run upon a bed of solid boulders. The
pilot, it seemed, had been drinking a little too freely of schnapps,
and had fallen asleep at the helm. It was a miracle that we were not
all dashed to pieces. A few yards to the right stood a sharp rock,
which, had we run against it, would have crushed in the entire bow of
the boat, and probably many of us would have perished.
Although there was no fear of our sinking any deeper unless the bed of
rocks gave way, it was not a pleasant prospect to be detained here,
perhaps for several days. The main shore was some five or six miles
distant, and presented an almost unbroken line of granite boulders and
dense pine forests. Most of the passengers were on deck, in a state of
high excitement; the gentlemen running about in their shirt sleeves
and drawers, and the ladies in those indescribable costumes which
ladies usually wear when they go to sleep. The captain was mounted on
the poop-deck, with his pipe in his mouth, giving orders to the men,
who were pulling and tugging at big ropes, and trying to be very busy
knocking things about; the pilot stood a little apart from the
captain, pale and moody, having in a single moment destroyed his
prospects for life. I felt very sorry for the poor fellow, though
there was really no excuse for him. Every now and then the captain
turned to him and gave him a broadside of curses, which he bore very
meekly.
In vain the engineer put on additional steam; in vain the captain
shouted "Back!" "Ahead!" "Stop!" We did nothing but stop. It was stop
all the time. As there is no tide in these inland waters, the prospect
was that we would continue to stop as long as the rocks remained
stationary.
All hope of progress being at an end, the engineer slackened down the
fires; the deck-hands went to breakfast, and the passengers went down
below to dress and talk over their misfortune. The sun rose as usual,
and the sky was as clear and the lake as placid as if nothing had
happened. I had been trying all my life to get shipwrecked on a
desolate island; now there seemed a fair prospect of success. The only
difficulty was, that there was no heavy sea to break the vessel to
pieces, and she was too substantial to go to pieces of her own
account. The nearest island was little more than a barren rock. A few
birds wheeled about over it, or sat perched upon its rugged points,
but with that exception I doubt if it furnished a foothold for a
living creature.
After a good breakfast of sausages and veal cutlets, brown bread and
coffee, we again turned out on deck. This time the joyful tidings
reached us from aloft that a Gottenburg steamer was approaching. Soon
the smoke of her chimneys was perceptible from the deck, and in an
hour or so she was alongside. A stout hawser was bent on to her, and
after another hour of pulling and tugging, backing and filling, we
slipped off the rocks, and floated out into the channel. I was
destined, after all, never to be decently shipwrecked. We had suffered
but little injury, and proceeded on our way as quietly as if nothing
had interrupted our course. On our arrival at the next pilot station
the captain put the pilot ashore, with a parting malediction in the
Swedish vernacular.
The next place of importance on our route was the pretty little town
of Motala, at which we stopped for some hours to take in freight and
passengers. The neighborhood is undulating and picturesque, and
abounds in rich farms. Motala is an old-fashioned place, with paved
streets and wooden houses, much like the suburbs of Stockholm. It is
celebrated chiefly for its manufactures of iron. The founderies are
numerous, and cutlery of a very good quality is manufactured here.
Besides these, it possesses many other objects of interest. The
churches are well worth visiting, and the ruins of the fortifications
erected in 1567, to resist the Danes, are among the finest in Sweden.
From Motala, after another narrow stretch of canal, we soon reached
the Wettern Lake, the next largest to the Wenern, and the waters of
which are three hundred and four feet above the level of the sea.
In my recollections of travel I can scarcely call to mind any
experience more pleasant than I enjoyed during this part of the trip.
The lake scenery of Sweden, although not very grand compared with that
of the Norwegian fjords, is certainly unsurpassed in the softness and
beauty of its coloring, the crystal clearness of the water, the
luxuriance of the surrounding forests, the varied labyrinths of
charming little islands through which the channel winds, and the
delicate atmospheric tints cast on the distant shores. By this time,
too, the passengers have become better acquainted. The wonderful
sights that we have seen together; the perils and dangers through
which we have passed; the breakfasts, dinners, and suppers that we
have eaten at the same board; the amount of solid sleeping that we
have done in the same little cabin; the promenades we have had up and
down the decks, and the rambles we have enjoyed together, have bound
us together as one family, and now we come out with our individual
histories and experiences, our accomplishments and humors. We (the
gentlemen) drink schnapps together, smoke cigars, talk all the
languages under the sun, tell our best anecdotes, and sing glees under
the awning. The ladies look more beautiful than ever, and although
they are still a little shy of us, as ladies in Europe generally are
of the male sex, they sometimes favor us with a smile or a pleasant
word, and thus contribute to our happiness. I don't know, for the life
of me, what dire offense the man who founded European society was
guilty of; but it is certain his successors, from Algeria to the North
Pole, are sadly mistrusted by the unmarried ladies. This, I regret to
say, is the case in Sweden, as well as in Germany and France. A
gentleman is generally regarded as a ferocious cannibal, ready
without the slightest provocation to devour and swallow up
defenseless maidens. The married ladies are free and easy enough,
having discovered probably that men are not half so dangerous as they
are reported to be. But, all things considered, the Swedish ladies are
exceedingly polite and affable, and on occasions of this kind seem
well disposed toward our rapacious sex.
The next important point in our route was the fortress of Wanas, which
commands the channel entering the lake on the eastern side. This is
considered a work of great importance in view of invasion by any
foreign power. We did not stop long enough to examine it in detail,
merely touching to put the mail ashore and take in a few passengers.
Leaving the Wettern Lake, our route lay through a series of smaller
lakes, beautifully diversified with wood-covered islands, till we
entered the Viken, another magnificent stretch of water of less extent
than the Wettern, but still more beautiful than any we had yet seen.
Here the rocks and islands are innumerable, rising from the water in
every direction; the smaller ones covered with moss, lichens,
shrubbery, and flowers; and the larger darkened with a dense growth of
fir, pine, and other evergreens, while the oak, elm, and ash
occasionally enliven the masses of shade with their more lively
foliage.
At the end of the Viken, which is some fifteen miles in length, the
West Gotha Canal commences, and continues through a rich and beautiful
farming country to the waters of the great Wenern Lake, some twenty
miles distant. The passage through this portion of the route is less
interesting than others through which we had passed--so far, at least,
as the scenery is concerned. The country is undulating, but not
sufficiently diversified for fine scenic effects. Farms and meadows
extend nearly all the way to the shores of the Wenern; and the canal
passes at frequent intervals through farming districts, which, in
point of cultivation, are quite equal to any thing I had seen in more
southern parts of Europe. The peasants' houses along the route are
neat and comfortable, and reminded me occasionally of our New England
farm-houses. Villages enliven the route at intervals of a few miles,
but generally they are of inconsiderable size, and may properly be
regarded as mere gatherings of farm-houses around the nucleus of a
church or post station. In this respect, I was struck with the
difference between Sweden and Germany. The German peasantry, as a
general thing, live in villages, and carry on their farming outside,
sometimes at a distance of several miles. In the Thuringenwald, the
Schwartzwald, the Spessart, and some other mountainous districts, it
is true, exceptions may be found to this rule; but throughout the best
cultivated districts of Germany there are but comparatively few
farm-houses in which isolated families live. Hence villages, and, in
many cases, large towns, form the head-quarters of each agricultural
parish. The pedestrian, in traveling through Germany, is scarcely ever
more than a "halp-stund" from one town or village to another. I think
the longest stretch I ever made between two villages was two hours, or
six and a half miles. In Sweden (and the same may be said of Norway)
the farming districts have more of an American aspect. The houses are
scattered about on the different farms, and the peasants do not seem
to be so gregarious in their habits as those of Germany. This arises
in part from the fact that the population is not so dense in Sweden as
in the more central parts of Europe, and in part from the greater
abundance of wood and pasture, and the predominance of the lumbering,
mining, and stock-raising interests. Many of the farmers are also
lumbermen and miners, and nearly all have a good supply of blood
cattle. The extent of arable land in Sweden is comparatively small. It
presents few attractions as an agricultural country. Its chief wealth
consists in its vast forests and mines. The climate is too severe and
the production of cereal crops too uncertain to render farming on a
large scale a profitable pursuit. This is especially the case in the
northern parts. South of Stockholm, between the lakes of Wettern and
Wenern, and along the banks of the Gota River, farming is carried to
considerable perfection; but with this exception, and some small and
sheltered valleys to the north, in which the peasants manage with
great care and labor to raise a sufficient supply of grain and
potatoes for domestic consumption, but little is produced for
exportation. The land generally throughout Sweden is barren and rocky,
and it is only by great labor and constant manuring that fair crops
can be produced. In the populous districts, where the soil possesses
some natural advantages, the farms are mostly small, averaging from
ten to seventy-five acres. A tract of forest is usually attached to
these farming-lands, from which the peasants derive their supplies of
lumber and fuel. Saw-mills are numerous on all the rivers, and a large
trade in lumber is carried on in the lake regions. The main lumber
region lies north of Stockholm, on the various small rivers emptying
into the Gulf of Bothnia. Sundswall, Umea, Lulea, and Haparanda are
the principal places of exportation on the eastern shore, and
Gottenburg on the west. The fisheries are also an important branch of
industry, and large quantities of stromung and herrings are exported.
Salmon abound in the rivers, and the lakes and mountain streams
furnish a very fine quality of trout. Game is more abundant in the
densely wooded regions of Sweden than in Norway, being less accessible
to English sportsmen. Of late years Norway has become the favorite
hunting and fishing ground of the English, and every summer they swarm
all over the country with their guns and fishing-rods. In Sweden,
however, comparatively few have yet made their appearance. Bear, elk,
red deer, ptarmigan, and wild-fowl abound in the forests and along the
shores of the lakes. The Swedes themselves are not so much given to
this kind of recreation as the English. Their chief amusements consist
in Sunday afternoon recreations, such as theatrical representations,
dancing, singing, drinking, and carousing. In their religious
observances they are very strict, but after church they consider
themselves privileged to enjoy a little dissipation in the Continental
style. It too often happens that their frolics are carried to an
excess. More brandy and other strong liquors are consumed in Sweden,
according to the population, than in New Orleans or San Francisco,
which is saying a good deal for the civilization of the people.
Another good sign is that they chew tobacco. The better classes
usually smoke this delightful weed, but the peasants both smoke it and
chew it, showing conclusively that they are advancing rapidly toward
emancipation from the narrow prejudices of European society. I saw
drunken men and tobacco-chewers in Sweden who would have done credit
to any little mining district in California. The habit of drinking is
almost universal. The peasants drink to get drunk, the better classes
drink for excitement, and all drink because they like it. At the
principal restaurants in Stockholm and Gottenburg there is usually an
anteroom opening into the main saloon. Here every gentleman who enters
deposits his hat and cane. In the centre of the room stands a small
table, upon which are several decanters containing "schnapps," a pile
of brown bread sliced, various plates of biscuit and thin flour-cake,
butter, and pickled fish. Around this the customers gather to acquire
an appetite, which they accomplish by drinking one or two glasses of
schnapps, eating a few small fish (stromung) spread upon their bread
and butter, and then drinking some schnapps. They then go in to
dinner, and call for what they want, including the various wines
necessary for the process of digestion. Having eaten heartily and
emptied a few bottles of wine, they wind up with coffee and cognac or
maraschino. One would think such a process every day would burn the
lining off the best stomach in the world; but the Swedes, like the
Russians, have gutta-percha stomachs. The same system, it is true,
prevails in San Francisco, only in a different form, and the same
consequences generally ensue. People are very apt to get up from the
table with a rush of blood to the head, a general obliquity of vision,
and a peculiar weakness in the knees. I tried it myself by way of
experiment, and was sick of a headache for three days after. Somehow I
can travel a long distance on foot without getting tired, but my
stomach is not lined with sheet iron. I have seen women and children
drink at a single sitting enough of intoxicating beverages, since my
arrival in Europe, to have capsized me for a month. This, I think,
will account for the prevalence of bloated bodies and red noses in
these highly civilized countries.
I had read somewhere, before visiting Sweden, that the Swedes are not
very sociable toward strangers. Perhaps in this respect they do not
produce so favorable an impression as the Germans, but my experience
has been such as to give me a very pleasant idea of their social
qualities. It is true they are not so demonstrative in their manners
as the French, or so enthusiastic as the Germans; but I found no
difficulty in becoming acquainted with them, and was invariably
treated with kindness and hospitality. When a Swede manifests an
interest in your behalf, it is pretty certain that he feels it. If you
become acquainted with one respectable family, you have a general
entree into the entire social circle. No pains are spared to render
your visit agreeable; and although the demonstrations of kindness are
never intrusive, you feel that they are cordial and sincere. There may
be among the more polished classes a certain degree of formality which
to a stranger bears the appearance of reserve; but this quickly passes
away, and the pleasure is all the greater in finding that there is
really very little reserve about them. With all their adhesion to
forms and ceremonies, they are simple and unaffected in their manners,
and have a natural repugnance to whatever is meretricious. In a word,
the Swedes are an honest, straightforward, sterling people, resembling
more, in certain points of character, the English than any of their
Continental neighbors, though I must do them the justice to say that
they rarely have so unpleasant a way of manifesting their best traits.
I can readily believe that the longer they are known the better they
may be liked. It is true I saw nothing of Swedish society beyond what
a casual tourist can see in passing rapidly through the country, yet
that little impressed me very favorably, and disposes me to rely with
confidence upon what I gathered from others who have enjoyed a more
extended experience.
The home sketches of Fredrika Bremer give a more thorough insight of
Swedish life and manners than perhaps those of any other writer. Of
late years, however, Miss Bremer does not appear to have maintained
her early popularity. She is said to have written some things which
have given offense and provoked severe criticism, and I was surprised
to hear her productions mentioned by several of her countrymen in
somewhat disparaging terms. This was a source of disappointment to me,
for I had supposed she was the most popular writer in Sweden; and I
could not easily forget the pleasure I had derived from the perusal of
"The H---- Family," "Nina," "The Professor," and other of her
charming delineations of domestic life. As no man is a prophet in his
own valley, I suppose the same may be said of women. To this, however,
Jenny Lind is an exception.
But, as usual, I find myself steering out of the channel. We were now
in the great Wenern Lake, a vast sheet of water fifty miles broad by
one hundred in length. The elevation of this lake is 147 feet above
the sea level. Its shores are densely wooded, and it abounds in
islands, many of which are inhabited and cultivated. Several rivers of
considerable size empty their waters into the Wenern, among which is
the Klar, a large and rapid stream having its source in the mountains
of Norway, at a distance of two hundred and fifty miles to the north.
Fishing and lumbering are the principal occupations of the inhabitants
living on the islands and shores. All these interior waters are frozen
over in winter, and communication is carried on by means of sledges.
The winters are very severe; and it is said that great numbers of
wolves, driven from their usual haunts by starvation, prowl along the
public highways during the winter months in search of prey. Traveling
parties are sometimes attacked, and it is considered dangerous for
children to go from one farm-house to another. The government,
however, by a system of rewards for the destruction of these vicious
animals, has succeeded of late years in greatly reducing their
numbers.
In speaking of the severity of Swedish winters, it may be well to
state that the cold is uniform, and consequently more easily endured
than if the temperature were subject to sudden variations. There is,
of course, considerable difference between the northern and southern
parts of the country; but, taking the average or central parts, the
winters may be considered as lasting about five months. During that
period the snow covers the earth, and the lakes and rivers are frozen.
At Stockholm the thermometer averages in summer about 70 degrees
above, and in winter 29 degrees below zero, of Fahrenheit. At
Gottenburg the summers are not quite so warm and the winters not so
cold. The temperature of the Norwegian coast facing the Atlantic is
less rigorous than that of the Swedish coast on the Baltic, arising
from the influence of the Gulf Stream, and partly from the proximity
of the open sea. Even at Wammerfest, which lies within the arctic
circle, the winters are comparatively mild. At Bergen it rains over
two hundred days in the year, and the fjords are seldom frozen over.
Passing along the eastern shore of the Wenern, we passed a series of
rocky islands, well wooded till we reached the town of Wenersberg--an
important dépôt for the commerce and products of the lake. At this
place a brisk trade in iron and lumber is carried on during the summer
months, and the wharves present quite a lively appearance, with their
shipping, and piles of lumber and merchandise. The population of
Wenersberg is about 2500; the houses are neat, and the general
appearance of the town is thrifty. We stopped long enough to enjoy a
ramble through the streets, and take a look at the inhabitants, after
which our little steamer proceeded on her way through the Wassbottom
Lake. At the end of this we entered the Carls Graf, or that portion of
the canal built by Charles IX., to avoid the upper falls of the Gota
River. The canal is here cut through solid masses of rock, and must
have been a work of great difficulty and expense.
Late in the evening we arrived at the Falls of Trolhætta.
CHAPTER XXVII.
VOYAGE TO CHRISTIANIA.
I shall not stop to describe the Falls of Trolhætta. Better
word-painters have so often pictured the beauties of this region that
there is nothing left for an unimaginative tourist like myself.
A few hours' travel by the river steamer brought me to Gottenburg,
where, for the first time since my arrival in Europe, I really began
to enjoy life. Not that Gottenburg is a very lively or fascinating
place, for it abounds in abominations and smells of fish, and is
inhabited by a race of men whose chief aim in life appears to be
directed toward pickled herring, mackerel, and codfish. There was much
in it, however, to remind me of that homeland on the Pacific for which
my troubled heart was pining. A grand fair was going on. All the
peasants from the surrounding country were gathered in, and I met very
few of them, at the close of evening, who were not reeling drunk.
Besides, they chewed tobacco--an additional sign of civilization to
which I had long been unaccustomed.
[Illustration: IN NORSELAND.]
At Gottenburg, in the absence of something better to do, I made up my
mind to visit Norway. The steamer from Copenhagen touches on her way
to Christiania. She has an unpleasant habit of waking people up in the
middle of the night; and I was told that if I wanted to make sure of
getting on board, I must sit up and watch for her. This is abominable
in a mercantile community; but what can be expected of a people whose
noblest aspirations are wrapped up in layers of dried codfish? By
contract with the kellner at my hotel the difficulty was finally
arranged. For the sum of two marks, Swedish currency, he agreed to
notify me of the approach of the Copenhagen steamer. I thought he was
doing all this solely on my account, but afterward discovered that he
had made contracts at a quarter the price with about a dozen others.
It was very late in the night, or very early in the morning, when I
was roused up, and duly put on board the steamer. Of the remainder of
that night the least said the better. A cabinful of sea-sick
passengers is not a pleasant subject of contemplation. When the light
of day found its way into our dreary abode of misery, I went on deck.
The weather was thick, and nothing was to be seen in any direction but
a rough, chopping sea and flakes of drifting fog. A few
doleful-looking tourists were searching for the land through their
opera-glasses. They appeared to be sorry they ever undertook such a
stormy and perilous voyage, and evidently had misgivings that they
might never again see their native country. Some of them peeped over
the bulwarks from time to time, with a faint hope, perhaps, of seeing
something new in that direction; but from the singular noises they
made, and the convulsive motions of their bodies, I had reason to
suspect they were heaving some very heavy sighs at their forlorn fate.
The waiters were continually running about with cups of coffee, which
served to fortify the stomachs of these hardy adventurers against
sea-sickness. I may here mention as a curious fact that in all my
travels I have rarely met a sea-going gentleman who could be induced
to acknowledge that he suffered the least inconvenience from the
motion of the vessel. A headache, a fit of indigestion, the remains of
a recent attack of gout, a long-standing rheumatism, a bilious colic
to which he had been subject for years, a sudden and unaccountable
shock of vertigo, a disorganized condition of the liver--something, in
short, entirely foreign to the known and recognized laws of motion,
disturbed his equilibrium, but rarely an out-and-out case of
sea-sickness. That is a weakness of human nature fortunately confined
to the ladies. Indeed, I don't know what the gentler sex would do if
it were not for the kindness of Providence in exempting the ruder
portion of humanity from this unpleasant accompaniment of sea-life,
only it unfortunately happens that the gentlemen are usually afflicted
with some other dire and disabling visitation about the same time.
[Illustration: THE STEAMER ENTERING THE FJORD.]
Toward noon the fog broke away, and we sighted the rocky headlands of
the Christiania Fjord. In a few hours more we were steaming our way
into this magnificent sheet of water at a dashing rate, and the decks
were crowded with a gay and happy company. No more the pangs of
despised love, indigestion, gout, and bilious colic disturbed the
gentlemen of this lively party; no more the fair ladies of Hamburg and
Copenhagen hid themselves away in their state-rooms, and called in
vain to their natural protectors for assistance. The sea was smooth;
the sun shot forth through the whirling rain-clouds his brightest
August beams. All along the shores of the Fjord, the rocky points,
jutting abruptly from the water, rose like embattled towers, crowned
with a variegated covering of moss, grim and hoary with the wild winds
and scathing winters of the North. Beautiful little valleys, ravines,
and slopes of woodland of such rich and glittering green opened out to
us on either side, as we swept past the headlands, that the vision was
dazzled with the profusion and variety of the charms bestowed upon
this wilderness of romantic scenery. A group of fishermen's huts,
behind a bold and jagged point of rocks--a rude lugger or
fishing-smack, manned by a hardy crew of Norskmen, rough and
weather-beaten as the ocean monsters of their stormy coast, gliding
out of some nook among the rocky inlets--here the cozy little cottage
of some well-to-do sea-captain, half fisher, half farmer, with a gang
of white-headed little urchins running out over the cliffs to take a
peep at the passing steamer, the frugal matron standing in the door
resplendent in her red woolen petticoat and fanciful head-dress,
knitting a pair of stockings, or some such token of love, for her
absent lord--there, a pretty little village, with a church, a wharf,
and a few store-houses, shrinking back behind the protecting wing of
some huge and rugged citadel of rocks, the white cottages glittering
pleasantly in the rays of the evening sun, and the smoke curling up
peacefully over the surrounding foliage, and floating off till it
vanished in the rich glow of the sky--all so calm, so dreamy in colors
and outline that the imagination is absolutely bewildered with the
varied feast of beauties: such are the characteristic features of this
noble sheet of water.
The Christiania Fjord is one of the largest in Norway. Commencing at
Frederickstadt on the one side and Sandesund on the other, it extends
into the interior a distance of seventy or eighty miles, making one of
the finest natural harbors in the world. The water is deep, and the
shores are almost rock-bound. In many places the navigation is
somewhat intricate, owing to the numerous rocky islands and rugged
headlands; but the Norwegian pilots are thoroughly experienced in
their business, and know every foot of the way as familiarly as they
know their own snug little cabins perched up among the rocks.
[Illustration: COAST OF NORWAY.]
Touching at the picturesque little town of Horten on the left, we
discharged some passengers and took in others, after which we
proceeded without farther incident to the town of Drobak on the right.
Here the Fjord is narrow, presenting something the appearance of a
river. A group of fortifications on the cliffs protects this
passage. The view on leaving Drobak is inexpressibly beautiful. The
Fjord widens gradually till it assumes the form of an immense lake,
the shores of which rise abruptly from the water, covered with forests
of pine. Moss-covered rocks, green wooded islands, and innumerable
fishing-craft, give variety and animation to the scene. Range upon
range of wild and rugged mountains extend back through the dim
distance on either side till their vague and fanciful outlines are
mingled with the clouds. Nothing can exceed the richness and beauty of
the atmospheric tints. A golden glow, mingled with deep shades of
purple, illuminates the sky. In the distance the snowy peaks of the
vast interior ranges of mountains glisten in the evening sun. The deep
green of the foliage which decks the islands and promontories of the
Fjord casts its reflected hues upon the surface of the sleeping
waters. In the valleys, which from time to time open out as we sweep
along on our way, rich yellow fields of grain make a brilliant and
striking contrast to the sombre tints of the pine forests in the rear.
It was long after sunset, but still light enough to enjoy all the
beauties of the Fjord, when we saw before us the numerous and
picturesque villas that adorn the neighborhood of Christiania. Passing
the fine old castle of Aggershuus on the left, we rounded a point, and
then came in full view of the town and harbor.
Surely there is nothing like this in the whole world, I thought, as I
gazed for the first time upon this charming scene. The strange
old-fashioned buildings, the castle, the palace on the hill-top, the
shipping at the wharves, the gardens on every slope, the varied
outlines of the neighboring cliffs and hills, covered with groves and
green slopes of rich sward; every nook glimmering with beautiful
villas; the whole reflected in the glowing waters that sweep through
the maze of islands and headlands in every direction; can there be any
thing more beautiful in all the world?
[Illustration: THE ISLANDS.]
The steamer was soon hauled alongside the wharf, where a crowd of
citizens was gathered to see us land. Here again was a scene
characteristic of Norway. No hurry, no confusion, no shouting and
clamoring for passengers, but all quiet, primitive, and good-humored.
How different from a landing at New York or San Francisco! Three or
four sturdy hack-drivers stood smoking their pipes, watching the
proceedings with an air of philosophical indifference truly
refreshing. Fathers, mothers, sisters, brothers, and cousins of
various parties on board, waved their handkerchiefs and nodded
affectionately to their friends and relatives, but kept their
enthusiasm within limits till the plank was put out, when they came on
board, and kissed and hugged every body of their acquaintance in the
most affectionate manner. The officers of the customs, good easy
souls! also came on board, books in hand, and made a kind of
examination of the baggage. It was neither severe nor formal, and I
felt an absolute friendship for the chief officer on account of the
jolly manner in which he looked at me, and asked me if I had any thing
contraband in my little knapsack. I offered to open it, but with a
wave of his hand he chalked a pass upon it and I walked ashore. For
the first time in my life I here felt the inconvenience of not being
persecuted by porters and hack-drivers. The few who were on hand
seemed to be particular friends or relatives of parties on board, and
were already engaged. I walked up the queer, grass-grown old streets,
looking around in the dim twilight for a hotel; and after stumbling
into half a dozen odd-looking shops and store-houses, contrived to
make my way to the Hotel Victoria, said to be the best in Christiania.
As it is no part of my purpose to write a book on Christiania, I shall
only say that for the next three days I rambled about enjoying all the
objects of interest in this quaint northern city--the churches, the
museum, the castle, the palace, the ups and downs of the streets, the
market-places, wharves, and gardens, and the magic beauties of the
neighborhood. There is a plainness and simplicity about the people of
Christiania, a good-humor of expression, a kindliness of manner and
natural politeness that impressed me very favorably. The society is
said to be genial and cultivated. I have no doubt of the fact, though
my stay was too short to afford an opportunity of making many
acquaintances.
At the Hotel Victoria I met Ole Bull, who was on a tour through his
native land. He sat near me at the _table d'hôte_, and I had an
opportunity of noticing the changes which time has made in his
appearance. The last time I had seen him was in Columbus, Ohio, in
1844. He was then in the very prime of life, slender and graceful, yet
broad of shoulder and powerful of limb; with light straight hair,
clear blue eyes, and a healthy Northern complexion. He is now quite
altered, and I am not sure that I would have recognized him had he not
been pointed out to me. In form he is much stouter, though not so
erect as he was in former years. His hair is sprinkled with gray. He
retains the same noble cast of features, and deep, dreamy, and genial
expression of eye as of old, but his complexion is sallow, and his
face is marked by lines of care. There is something sad and touching
in his manner. I do not know what his misfortunes in America may have
to do with his present dejected expression, but he seems to me to be a
man who has met with great disappointments in life. Although I sat
beside him at the table, and might have claimed acquaintance as one of
his most ardent American admirers, I was deterred from speaking to him
by something peculiar in his manner--not coldness, for that is not in
his nature--but an apparent withdrawal from the outer world into
himself. A feeling that it might be intrusive to address him kept me
silent. I afterward sent him a few lines, expressing a desire to renew
my early acquaintance with him; but he left town while I was absent on
an excursion to the Frogner-assen, and, much to my regret, I missed
seeing him.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
FROM CHRISTIANIA TO LILLEHAMMER.
The population of Christiania is something over 40,000, and of late
years it has become quite a place of resort for tourists on the way to
the interior of Norway. The houses built since the fire of 1858, which
destroyed a considerable portion of the town, are large and
substantial, built of stone and covered with cement. The streets for
the most part are broad and roughly paved. Very little of
characteristic style is observable in the costume of the citizens.
Plainness of dress, simple and primitive manners, and good nature, are
the leading traits of the Norwegians. Christiania is the modern
capital of Norway, and was founded by Christian IV. of Denmark, near
the site of the ancient capital of Osloe, which was founded in 1058 by
King Harold Hardraade. Some of the old buildings still remain in a
state of good preservation; but the chief interest of the city
consists in its castle, university, library, and museum of Northern
antiquities. A traveler from the busy cities of America is struck with
the quiet aspect of the streets, and the almost death-like silence
that reigns in them after dark. In many places the sidewalks are
overgrown with grass, and the houses are green with moss. Stagnation
broods in the very atmosphere. Christiania is in all respects the
antipodes of San Francisco. A Californian could scarcely endure an
existence in such a place for six weeks. He would go stark mad from
sheer inanity. Beautiful as the scenery is, and pleasantly as the time
passed during my brief sojourn, it was not without a feeling of relief
that I took my departure in the cars for Eidsvold.
[Illustration: APPROACH TO CHRISTIANIA.]
The railway from Christiania to Eidsvold is the only one yet in
operation in Norway. It was a pretty heavy undertaking, considering
the rough country and the limited resources of the people; but it was
finally completed, and is now considered a great feature in Norwegian
civilization. Some idea may be formed of the backwardness of
facilities for internal communication throughout this country when I
mention the fact that beyond the distance of forty miles to Eidsvold
and the Lake of Miösen, the traveler is dependent upon such vehicles
as he takes with him, unless he chooses to incur the risk of procuring
a conveyance at Hamar or Lillehammer. The whole country is a series of
rugged mountains, narrow valleys, desolate fjelds, rivers, and fjords.
There are no regular communications between one point and another on
any of the public highways, and the interior districts are supplied
with such commodities as they require from the sea-board solely by
means of heavy wagons, sledges, boats, and such other primitive modes
of transportation as the nature of the country and the season may
render most available.
Like every thing else in Norway, the cars on the Eidsvold railway have
rather more of a rustic than a metropolitan appearance. They are
extremely simple in construction and rural in decoration; and as for
the road, it may be very good compared with a trail over the Sierra
Nevada Mountains, but it is absolutely frightful to travel over it by
steam. Three hours is the allowance of time for forty miles. If I
remember correctly, we stretched it out to four, on account of a
necessary stoppage on the way, caused by the tumbling down of some
rocks from an overhanging cliff. The jolting is enough to dislocate
one's vertebræ; and I had a vague feeling all the time during the trip
that the locomotive would jump off the track, and dash her brains out
against some of the terrible boulders of granite that stood frowning
at us on either side as we worried our way along from station to
station.
It was nearly dark when we came to a saw-mill by the roadside. The
scenery is pretty all the way from Christiania, but not very striking
till the train passes the narrow gorge in which the saw-mill is
situated, where there is a tunnel of a few hundred feet that
penetrates a bluff on the left. Emerging from this, we are close upon
the charming little village of Eidsvold, one of the loveliest spots in
this land of beauty. A few minutes more brought us to the
station-house, where the railway ends. Here we found ourselves at a
good hotel, picturesquely situated on the bank of the Wormen, a river
flowing from the Miösen Lake.
At eleven o'clock on a fine Sunday forenoon I took my departure from
Eidsvold on board one of the little lake steamers. These vessels are
well managed, and not inconveniently arranged, but they are so very
small that on particular occasions, when there is an unusual pressure
of travelers, it is difficult to find room for a seat. Owing to the
facilities afforded by the railway from Christiania, an excursion to
Lillehammer is the most popular way of passing a Sunday during the
summer months, and this being the height of the season, the crowd was
unusually great. It also happened that two hundred soldiers, who had
served out their time, were returning to their homes in the interior,
so that there was no lack of company on board. If the soldiers were
somewhat lively and frolicsome, it was nothing more than natural under
the circumstances. A good many were intoxicated--at the idea, perhaps,
of getting home once more, and their songs and merry shouts of
laughter kept every body in a good humor. I am unable to account for a
curious fact, which I may as well mention in this connection. Whenever
the authorities of any country through which I chance to travel have
occasion to send their troops from one point to another, they
invariably send them upon the same boat or in the same railway train
upon which I have the fortune to take passage. There must be something
military in my appearance, or some natural propensity for bloodshed in
my nature, that causes this affinity to exist between us, for it has
happened altogether too often to be accidental. The King of Sicily,
some years ago, sent a party of troops to keep me company to Palermo.
Subsequently the King of Greece favored me with a large military
convoy to one of the Greek islands. After that I had an independent
supervision of various bodies of Turkish soldiers on board of
different vessels within the Turkish dominions. Recently Napoleon III.
sent down by the same train of cars, from Paris to Marseilles, about
four hundred of his troops for Algiers. Being detained at Marseilles
by some unforeseen circumstance, I had the pleasure of seeing these
men shipped off on the first steamer. I took passage in the next. By
some extraordinary fatality, for which there is no accounting, there
were upward of five hundred additional troops shipped on this vessel.
It was a consolation to know that a storm was brewing, and that they
would soon be all sea-sick. Before we got out of the Gulf of Lyons I
could have slain every man of them with a pocket-knife. It was
therefore with a spirit of resignation that I saw the Norwegian
soldiers come on board at Eidsvold. Fate had ordained that we should
travel together, and it was no use to complain. Besides, I liked their
looks. As stalwart, blue-eyed, jovial, and hearty-looking a set of
fellows they were as ever I saw in any country--men of far higher
intelligence and physical capacity than the average of soldiers in
Continental Europe. That these were the right sort of men to fight for
their country there could be no doubt. I have rarely seen finer troops
any where than those of Norway.
The Miösen Lake is sixty-three miles in length, extending from Minde
to Lillehammer, and varies in width from five to ten miles. The
broadest part is opposite to Hamar, nearly at the centre, and not far
from the island of Helgeö. The shores embrace some of the finest
farming lands in Norway; and after passing Minde, the sloping
hill-sides are dotted with pretty little farm-houses, and beautifully
variegated with fields and orchards. In many places, so numerous are
the cottages of the thrifty farmers hung in this favored region, that
they resemble a continuous village, extending for many miles along the
hill-sides. There is not much in the natural aspect of the country to
attract the lover of bold mountain scenery. The beauties of the shores
of Miösen are of a gentle and pastoral character, and become
monotonous after a few hours. Near Hamar, on the right, there are the
ruins of an old cathedral, burned and plundered by the Swedes in 1567.
Apart from the ordinary interest of the Miösen Lake, arising from the
quiet, pastoral character of its shores, it possessed a peculiar charm
to me, owing to the fact that, in 1755, when the great earthquake
occurred at Lisbon, its waters rose twenty feet, and suddenly
retreated. Only a few months previously I had visited the city of
Lisbon, and stood upon the very spot, where, in six minutes, over
sixty thousand souls had been buried beneath the ruins. I was now, so
to speak, following up an earthquake.
It was late at night when we arrived at the pretty little town of
Lillehammer, at the head of the lake. Leaving the steamer here, I
found myself, for the first time, beyond the limits of the English
language. A Norwegian with whom I had become acquainted on board the
boat was kind enough to walk up town with me and show me the way to
the post station, where I had some difficulty in procuring
accommodations, owing to the number of recent arrivals.
The town of Lillehammer contains twelve or fifteen hundred
inhabitants, whose principal industry consists in the lumber business.
Immense rafts are towed down the lake every day by the returning
steamers, and carried by rail from Eidsvold to Christiania. The logs
are drifted down the Logen River from the interior, and cut up at
Lillehammer and Eidsvold. Such as are designed for spars are dressed
and stripped at the latter place. There are many other points on the
lake from which supplies of timber are also transferred to
Christiania, so that, between farming, fishing, and lumbering, the
inhabitants of this region make out a very comfortable subsistence,
and generally own the lands upon which they reside. Many of them are
wealthy--for this part of the world.
Lillehammer is prettily situated on an eminence, and consists of log
and frame houses, presenting much the appearance of a Western lake
village in the United States. The view of the Miösen and its verdant
shores is very fine from the top of the hill. It was ten o'clock at
night when I arrived, although the sky was still lighted up with a
purple glow from the departed sun. Something of the wonderful scenic
beauties of the country were still visible. A party of French
tourists, who had come to Norway to make a three days' visit, set off
at this late hour to see the torrent which breaks from the side of the
mountain, about half a mile beyond the town. I was solicited to join
them; but my passion for sight-seeing was rather obscured by the
passion of hunger and thirst. At such times I am practical enough to
prefer a good supper to the best waterfall in the world. Waterfalls
can be postponed. Hunger must be promptly satisfied. Thirst makes one
dry. A distant view of falling water is a poor substitute for a glass
of good ale. There is no fear that any ordinary cataract will run
itself out before morning.
This was my first experience of a post station, and very pleasant I
found it. The inns of Norway are plain, cheap, and comfortable; not
very elegant in appearance, but as good in all respects as a plain
traveler could desire. I had a capital supper at Lillehammer,
consisting of beefsteak, eggs, bread, butter, and coffee--enough to
satisfy any reasonable man. The rooms are clean, the beds and bedding
neat and comfortable, and the charge for supper, lodging, and
breakfast not exceeding an average of about fifty cents. At some of
the interior stations I was charged only about twenty-five cents, and
in no instance was I imposed upon. The inn-keepers are so generally
obliging and good-natured that there is very little difficulty in
getting along with them. A few words always sufficed to make my wants
understood, and the greatest kindness and alacrity were invariably
shown in supplying them. But I anticipate my journey.
After a pleasant night's rest I arose bright and early; and here,
being for the first time thrown completely upon my own resources in
the way of language, was obliged to have recourse to my vocabulary to
get at the means of asking for breakfast and a horse and cariole.
Fancy a lean and hungry man standing before a substantial landlord,
trying to spell out a breakfast from his book in some such way as
this:
"Jeg vil Spise [I will eat]!"
"Ya, min Herr!" the landlord politely answers.
"Jeg vil Frokost [I will breakfast]!"
"Ya, min Herr;" and the landlord runs off into a perfect labyrinth of
birds, fish, eggs, beefsteak, hot cakes, and other luxuries, which the
inexperienced traveler is vainly attempting to follow up in his book.
In despair, he at length calls out,
"Ja! Ja!--that's all right! any thing you say, my fine old gentleman!"
At which the landlord scratches his head, for he doesn't understand
precisely what you have selected. Now you take your book, and explain
slowly and systematically:
"Kaffee!"
"Ja."
"Oegg!"
"Ja."
"Fisk!"
"Ja."
"Smör og Brod!"
Here the landlord is staggered, and scratches his head again. _Smör_
he gets a glimmering of, but the bread stuns him. You try it in a
dozen different ways--broad, breyd, breed, brode, braid. At length a
light flashes upon his mind. You want bread! Simple as the word is,
and though he pronounces it precisely according to one of your own
methods, as you suppose, it is difficult to get the peculiar
intonation that renders it intelligible.
"Ja!" And thus you lay the foundation of your breakfast; after which,
having progressed so far in the language, there is no great difficulty
in asking for a "Heste og Cariole" [a horse and cariole].
A little practice in this way soon enables the traveler to acquire a
sufficient knowledge of the language for the ordinary purposes of
communication along the road. With a smattering of the German it comes
very readily to one who speaks English, being something of a mixture
between these two languages. I was really astonished to find how well
I could understand it, and make myself understood, in the course of a
few days, though candor obliges me to say that if there is any one
thing in the world for which nature never intended me it is a
linguist.
I was in hopes of finding at Lillehammer a party of tourists bound
over the Dovre Fjeld to Trondhjem, of whom I had heard in Christiania.
In this I was disappointed. They had started a few days previously. An
omnibus was advertised to run as far as Elstad, some thirty-five miles
up the valley of Gudbransdalen, which would be so much gained on my
route. It seemed, however, that it only ran whenever a sufficient
number of passengers offered--so I was obliged to give up that
prospect.
CHAPTER XXIX.
HOW THEY TRAVEL IN NORWAY.
Nothing can be more characteristic of Norwegian seclusion from the
world than the rude means of inland communication between the
principal cities. Here was a public highway between two of the most
important sea-ports in the country--Christiania and Trondhjem--without
as much as a stage to carry passengers. Every traveler has to depend
upon his own vehicle, or upon such rude and casual modes of conveyance
as he can find at the stations by the wayside. I asked the reason of
this backward state of things, and was informed that the amount of
travel is insufficient to support any regular stage line. The season
for tourists lasts only about three months, and during the remainder
of the year very few strangers have occasion to pass over the roads.
In winter--which, of course, lasts very long in this latitude--the
whole country is covered with snow, and sledges are altogether used,
both for purposes of traveling and the transportation of merchandise
from the sea-board. The products of the country--such as logs, spars,
and boards--are prepared during these months for rafting down the
rivers during the spring floods. Once, as I was told, an enterprising
Englishman had started a regular stage-line from Christiania to
Trondhjem, in consequence of the repeated complaints of the traveling
public, who objected to the delays to which they were subject; but he
was soon obliged to discontinue it for want of patronage. When
travelers had a convenient way of getting over, they grumbled at being
hurried through, and preferred taking the usual conveyances of the
country, which afforded them an opportunity of enjoying the scenery
and stopping wherever they pleased. People did not come all the way to
Norway, they said, to fly through it without seeing any of its wonders
and beauties. There was some philosophy in this, as well as a touch of
human nature. It reminded me of the Frenchman in Paris who lived to be
eighty years of age without ever leaving the city; when the king, for
the sake of experiment, positively forbid him from doing so during the
remainder of his life. The poor fellow was immediately seized with an
inordinate desire to see something of the outside world, and
petitioned so hard for the privilege of leaving the city that the
king, unable to resist his importunities, granted him the privilege,
after which the man was perfectly satisfied, and remained in Paris to
the day of his death.
By reference to a copy of the laws on the subject of post-travel,
which I had procured in Christiania from a Mr. Bennett, I discovered
that the system is singularly complicated and hazardous, as well as a
little curious in some of its details. The stations are situated along
the road about every eight or ten miles (counted in Norwegian by so
many hours). Nothing that we could call a village is to be seen in any
part of the interior, unless the few straggling farm-houses
occasionally huddled together, with a church in the centre, may be
considered in that light. The stations usually stand alone, in some
isolated spot on the wayside, and consist of a little log or frame
tavern, a long shambling stable, innumerable odds and ends of cribs,
store-houses, and outbuildings, forming a kind of court or
stable-yard; a rickety medley of old carts and carioles lying about
basking in the sun; a number of old white-headed men smoking their
pipes, and leathery-faced women on household duties intent, with a
score or so of little cotton-headed children running about over the
manure pile in the neighborhood of the barn, to keep the pigs company;
here and there a strapping lout of a boy swinging on a gate and
whistling for his own amusement; while cows, sheep, goats, chickens,
and other domestic animals and birds browse, nibble, and peck all over
the yard in such a lazy and rural manner as would delight an artist.
This is the ordinary Norwegian station.
[Illustration: STATION-HOUSE, LOGEN VALLEY.]
There is always a good room for the traveler, and plenty of excellent
homely fare to eat. At some few places along the route the
station-houses aspire to the style and dignity of hotels, but they are
not always the best or most comfortable. Then there are "fast" and
"slow" stations--so called in the book of laws. At the fast stations
the traveler can procure a horse and cariole without delay--fifteen
minutes being the legal limit. At the slow stations he must wait till
the neighborhood, for a distance of three or four miles perhaps, is
searched for a horse--sometimes for both horse and cariole. If he
chooses to incur the expense he can send forward a _Forbad_, or notice
in advance, requiring horses to be ready at each station at a
specified time; but if he is not there according to notice, he must
pay so much per hour for the delay. A day-book is kept at each of
these post-houses, in which the traveler must enter his name, stating
the time of his arrival and departure, where he came from, his
destination, how many horses he requires, etc. In this formidable book
he may also specify any complaint he has to make against the
station-holder, boy, horse, cariole, or any body, animal, or thing
that maltreats him, cheats him, or in any way misuses him on the
journey; but he must take care to have the inn-keeper or some such
disinterested person as a witness in his behalf, so that when the
matter comes before the Amtmand, or grand tribunal of justice, it may
be fairly considered and disposed of according to law. When the
inn-keeper, station-holder, posting-master, alderman, or other proper
functionary on the premises, fails to present this book and require
the traveler to sign his name in it, he (the arrant violator of laws)
is fined; but the traveler need not flatter himself that the rule does
not work both ways, for he also is fined if he refuses or
intentionally neglects to write his name in the said book. The number
of horses to be kept at fast stations is fixed by law, and no traveler
is to be detained more than a quarter of an hour, unless in certain
cases, when he may be detained half an hour. At a slow station he must
not be detained over three hours--such is the utmost stretch of the
law. Think of that, ye Gothamites, who complain if you are detained
any where on the face of the earth three minutes--only detained three
hours every eight or ten miles! But for delay occasioned by any
insuperable impediment, says the Norwegian law-book--such as a storm
at sea, or too great a distance between the inns--no liability is
incurred on either side. A Philadelphia lawyer could drive
six-and-thirty coaches-and-four, all abreast, through such a law as
that, and then leave room enough for a Stockton wagon and mule-team
on each side. Who is to judge of the weather or the distance between
the inns? When the traveler holds the reins he is responsible for the
horse, but when the post-boy does the holding, he, the said boy, is
the responsible party. Should any post-horse be ill treated or
overdriven when the traveler holds the reins, so that, in the language
of the law, "the station-holder, inn-keeper, or two men at the next
station can perceive this to be the case, the traveler shall pay for
the injury according to the estimation of these men, and he shall not
be allowed to be sent on until the payment is made." The traveler pays
all tolls and ferry charges. "When the road is very hilly, or is in
out-of-the-way districts where there are but few horses in proportion
to the travel, and the distance between the stations is unusually
long, or under other circumstances where the burden on the people
obligated to find horses is evidently very oppressive, etc.," "it may
be ordered by the king, after a declaration to that effect has been
procured by the authorities, that payment for posting may be reckoned
according to a greater distance, in proportion to the circumstances,
as far as double the actual distance."
In addition to all these formidable regulations--against which it
seems to me it would be impossible for any ordinary man to
contend--the tariff fixes the price of posting for fast and slow
stations in the country, the only difficulty being to find where the
towns are after you get into them, or to know at what stage of the
journey you leave them. The Amtmand, by letter to all the authorities,
likewise requires the tariff to be hung conspicuously in all the inns;
which tariff, says the law, "is altered according to the rise and fall
of provisions."
When I came to study out all this, and consider the duties and
obligations imposed on me as a traveler going a journey of three or
four hundred miles; that I was to be subject to contingencies and
liabilities depending upon the elements both by land and sea; that
serious responsibilities fell upon me if I held the reins of the
post-horse, and probably heavy risks of life and limb if the post-boy
held them; that the inn-keeper, station-holder, alderman, or two men
chosen miscellaneously from the ranks of society, were to judge of
damages that might be inflicted upon the horse; that I must register
my name in a day-book, and enter formal complaints against the
authorities on the way about every ten miles; that the tariff might
rise and fall five hundred times during the journey, for aught I knew,
according to the rise and fall of provisions or the pleasure of the
Amtmand; that conspiracies might be entered into against me to make me
pay for all the lame, halt, blind, and spavined horses in the country,
and my liberty restrained in some desolate region of the mountains;
that I could not speak a dozen words of the language, and had no other
means of personal defense against imposition than a small pen-knife
and the natural ferocity of my countenance--when all these
considerations occurred to me, I confess they made me hesitate a
little before launching out from Lillehammer.
However, the landlord of the post, a jolly and good-natured old
gentleman, relieved my apprehensions by providing such a breakfast of
coffee, eggs, beefsteak, fish, and bread, that my sunken spirits were
soon thoroughly aroused, and I felt equal to any emergency. When I
looked out on the bright hill-sides, and saw the sun glistening on the
dewy sod, and heard the post-boys in the yard whistling merrily to the
horses, I was prepared to face the great Amtmand itself. In a little
while the horse and cariole designed for my use were brought up before
the door, and the landlord informed me that all was "_fertig_."
Now, was there ever such a vehicle for a full-grown man to travel in?
A little thing, with a body like the end of a canoe, perched up on two
long shafts, with a pair of wheels in the rear; no springs, and only a
few straps of leather for a harness; a board behind for the
skydskaarl, or post-boy, to sit upon; and a horse not bigger than a
large mountain goat to drag me over the road! It was positively
absurd. After enjoying the spectacle for a moment, and making a
hurried sketch of it, wondering what manner of man had first contrived
such a vehicle, I bounced in, and stretched my legs out on each side,
bracing my feet against a pair of iron catches, made expressly for
that purpose. Fortunately, I am a capital driver. If nature ever
intended me for any one profession above all others, it must have been
for a stage-driver. I have driven buggies, wagons, and carts in
California hundreds of miles, and never yet killed any body. Like the
Irishman, I can drive within two inches of a precipice without going
over. Usually, however, I let the horse take his own way, which, after
all, is the grand secret of skillful driving.
My baggage consisted of a knapsack containing two shirts and an extra
pair of stockings, a sketch-book and some pencils, and such other
trifling knick-knacks as a tourist usually requires in this country. I
carried no more outside clothing than what common decency required: a
rough hunting-coat, a pair of stout cloth pantaloons, and an old pair
of boots--which is as much as any traveler needs on a Norwegian tour,
though it is highly recommended by an English writer that every
traveler should provide himself with two suits of clothes, a
Mackintosh, a portable desk, an India-rubber pillow, a few blankets,
an opera-glass, a musquito-net, a thermometer, some dried beef, and a
dozen boxes of sardines, besides a stock of white bread, and two
bottles of English pickles.
CHAPTER XXX.
A NORWEGIAN GIRL.
With a crack of the whip that must have astonished the landlord, and
caused him some misgivings for the fate of his horse and cariole, I
took my departure from Lillehammer. About half a mile beyond the town
we (the skydskaarl, myself, horse, and cariole) passed the falls--a
roaring torrent of water tumbling down from the mountain side on the
right. Several extensive saw-mills are located at this point. The
piles of lumber outside, and the familiar sounds of the saws and
wheels, reminded me of home. The scene was pretty and picturesque, but
rather disfigured by the progress of Norwegian civilization. Passing
numerous thriving farms in the full season of harvest, the road
winding pleasantly along the hill-side to the right, the foaming
waters of the Logen deep down in the valley to the left, we at length
reached the entrance of the Gudbransdalen--that beautiful and fertile
valley, which stretches all the way up the course of the Logen to the
Dovre Fjeld, a distance of a hundred and sixty-eight miles from
Lillehammer. It would be an endless task to undertake a description of
the beauties of this valley. From station to station it is a continued
panorama of dashing waterfalls, towering mountains, green slopes, pine
forests overtopping the cliffs, rich and thriving farms, with
innumerable log cottages perched up among the cliffs, and wild and
rugged defiles through which the road passes, sometimes overhung by
shrubbery for miles at a stretch. Flying along the smoothly-graded
highway at a rapid rate; independent of all the world except your
horse and boy; the bright sunshine glimmering through the trees; the
music of the wild waters falling pleasantly on your ear; each turn of
the road opening out something rich, new, and strange; the fresh
mountain air invigorating every fibre of your frame; renewed youth and
health beginning to glow upon your cheeks; digestion performing its
functions without a pang or a hint of remonstrance; kind, genial,
open-hearted people wherever you stop--is it not an episode in life
worth enjoying? The valley of the Logen must surely be a paradise (in
summer) for invalids.
At each station the traveler is furnished with a stunted little boy
called the skydskaarl, usually clothed in the cast-off rags of his
great-grandfather; his head ornamented by a flaming red night-cap, and
his feet either bare or the next thing to it; his hair standing out in
every direction like a mop dyed in whitewash and yellow ochre, and his
face and hands freckled and sunburned, and not very clean, while his
manners are any thing but cultivated. This remarkable boy sits on a
board behind the cariole, and drives it back to the station from which
it starts. He is regarded somewhat in the light of a high public
functionary by his contemporary ragamuffins, having been promoted from
the fields or the barn-yard to the honorable position of skydskaarl.
His countenance is marked by the lines of premature care and
responsibility, but varies in expression according to circumstances.
The sum of four cents at the end of an hour's journey gives it an
extremely amiable and intelligent cast. Some boys are constitutionally
knowing, and have a quick, sharp look; others again are dull and
stolid, as naturally happens wherever there is a variety of boys born
of different parents. For the most part, they are exceedingly bright
and lively little fellows. Mounted on their seat of honor at the back
of the cariole, they greatly enliven the way by whistling and singing,
and asking questions in their native tongue, which it is sometimes
very difficult to answer when one is not familiar with the language.
I had at Moshuus a communicative little boy, who talked to me
incessantly all the way to Holmen without ever discovering, so far as
I could perceive, that I did not understand a single word he said.
Another, after repeated efforts to draw me out, fell into a fit of
moody silence, and from that into a profound slumber, which was only
broken off toward the end of our journey by an accident. The cariole
struck against a stone and tilted him out on the road. He was a good
deal surprised, but said nothing.
Another little fellow, not more than six or seven years of age--a
pretty fair-haired child--was sent with me over a very wild and
broken stage of the journey. He was newly dressed in a suit of gray
frieze with brass buttons, and was evidently a shining light at home.
On the road a dog ran out from the bushes and barked at us. The poor
little skydskaarl was frantic with terror, and cried so lustily that I
had to take him into the cariole, and put him under my legs to keep
him from going into fits. He bellowed all the way to the next station,
where I endeavored to make the inn-keeper understand that it was cruel
to send so small a boy on such a hazardous journey. The man laughed
and said "Ja! he is too little!" which was all I could get out of him.
I felt unhappy about this poor child all day.
On another occasion I had a bright, lively little fellow about twelve
years of age, who was so pleased to find that I was an American that
he stopped every body on the road to tell them this important piece of
news, so that it took me about three hours to go a distance of seven
or eight miles. There was a light of intelligence in the boy's face
that enabled me to comprehend him almost by instinct, and the
quickness with which he caught at my half-formed words, and gathered
my meaning when I told him of the wonders of California, were really
surprising. This boy was a natural genius. He will leave his mountain
home some day or other and make a leading citizen of the United
States. Already he was eager to dash out upon the world and see some
of its novelties and wonders.
[Illustration: STATION-BOY.]
At Laurgaard I was favored with a small urchin who must have been
modeled upon one of Hogarth's pictures. He was a fixed laugh all over.
His mouth, nose, ears, eyes, hair, and chin were all turned up in a
broad grin. Even the elbows of his coat and the knees of his trowsers
were wide open with ill-concealed laughter. He laughed when he saw me,
and laughed more than ever when he heard me "_tale Norsk_." There was
something uncommonly amusing to this little shaver in the cut of a
man's jib who could not speak good Norwegian. All the way up the hill
he whistled, sang lively snatches of song, joked with the horse, and
when the horse nickered laughed a young horse-laugh to keep him
company. It did me good to see the rascal so cheery. I gave him an
extra shilling at Braendhagen for his lively spirit, at which he
grinned all over wider than ever, put the small change in his pocket,
and with his red night-cap in one hand made a dodge of his head at me,
as if snapping at a fly, and then held out his spare hand to give me
a shake. Of course I shook hands with him.
[Illustration: GOOD-BY--MANY THANKS!]
Shaking hands with small boys, however, is nothing uncommon in Norway.
Every boy on the entire route shook hands with me. Whenever I settled
the fare the skydskaarl invariably pulled off his cap, or, if he had
none, gave a pull at the most prominent bunch of hair, and holding
forth a flipper, more or less like a lump of raw beef, required me, by
all the laws of politeness, to give it a shake. The simplicity with
which they did this, and the awkward kindliness of their manner, as
they wished me a pleasant trip, always formed an agreeable episode in
the day's travel. I have shaken a greater variety of boys' hands in
Norway--of every size, kind, and quality, fat, lean, clean, and dirty,
dry and wet--than ever I shook all over the world before.
Notwithstanding the amount of water in the country, I must have
carried away from Trondhjem about a quarter of a pound of the native
soil. Between the contortions of body and limb acquired by a brief
residence in Paris, the battering out of several hats against my knee
in the process of bowing throughout the cities of Germany, and the
shaking of various boys' hands on my trip through Norway, I consider
that my politeness now qualifies me for any society.
[Illustration: NORWEGIAN PEASANT FAMILY.]
It must not be understood, however, that I was always favored with the
society of little boys. At one of the stations, which, for obvious
reasons, it would be indiscreet to name, there was no boy visible
except the ragamuffin who had accompanied me. He, of course, was
obliged to return with the horse and cariole. Three white-headed old
men were sitting on a log near the stable basking in the sun, and
gossiping pleasantly about by-gone times or the affairs of state, I
could not understand which. Each of these venerable worthies wore a
red night-cap, which in this country answers likewise for a day-cap,
and smoked a massive wooden pipe. It was a very pleasant picture of
rural content. As I approached they nodded a smiling "_God Aften!_"
and rose to unharness the horse. An elderly lady, of very neat
appearance and pleasing expression, came to the door and bade me a
kindly welcome. Then the three old men all began to talk to me
together, and when they said what they had to say about the fine
weather, and the road, and the quality of the horse, and whatever else
came into their antiquated heads, they led the horse off to the
stable and proceeded to get me a fresh one. While they were doing that
the elderly lady went back into the house and called aloud for some
person within. Presently a fine buxom young girl, about seventeen
years of age, made her appearance at the door. I flattered myself she
wore rather a pleased expression when she saw me; but that might have
been the customary cast of her features, or vanity on my part. At all
events, there was a glowing bloom in her cheeks, and a penetrating
brilliancy in her large blue eyes, wonderfully fascinating to one who
had not recently looked upon any thing very attractive in the line of
female loveliness. She was certainly a model of rustic beauty--I had
rarely seen her equal in any country. Nothing could be more lithe and
graceful than her form, which was advantageously set off by a tight
bodice and a very scanty petticoat. A pair of red woolen stockings
conspicuously displayed the fine contour of her--ankles I suppose is
the conventional expression, though I mean a great deal more than
that. As she sprang down the steps with a light and elastic bound, and
took hold of the horse, which by this time the three old men were
fumbling at to harness in the cariole, I unconsciously thought of
Diana Vernon. She had all the daring grace and delicacy of the Scotch
heroine--only in a rustic way. Seizing the horse by the bridle, she
backed him up in a jiffy between the shafts of the cariole, and
pushing the old gray-heads aside with a merry laugh, proceeded to
arrange the harness. Having paid the boy who had come over from the
last station, and put my name and destination in the day-book,
according to law, I refreshed myself by a glass of ale, and then came
out to see if all was ready. The girl nodded to me smilingly to get in
and be off.
I looked around for the boy who was to accompany me. Nobody in the
shape of a boy was to be seen. The three old men had returned to their
log by the stable, and now sat smoking their pipes and gossiping as
usual, and the good-natured old landlady stood smiling and nodding in
the doorway. Who was to take charge of the cariole? that was the
question. Was I to go alone? Suppose I should miss the road and get
lost in some awful wilderness? However, these questions were too much
for my limited vocabulary of Norsk on the spur of the moment. So I
mounted the cariole, resolved to abide whatever fate Providence might
have in store for me. The girl put the reins in my hand and off I
started, wondering why these good people left me to travel alone. I
thought that they would naturally feel some solicitude about their
property. Scarcely was I under way, when, with a bound like a deer,
the girl was up on the cariole behind, hanging on to the back of the
seat with both hands. Perfectly aghast with astonishment, I pulled the
reins and stopped. "What!" I exclaimed, in the best Norsk I could
muster, "is the _Jomfru_ going with me?" "_Ja!_" answered the laughing
damsel, in a merry, ringing voice--"_Ja! Ja! Jeg vil vise de
Veien!_--I will show you the way!"
Here was a predicament! A handsome young girl going to take charge of
me through a perfectly wild and unknown country! I turned to the old
lady at the door with something of a remonstrating expression, no
doubt, for I felt confused and alarmed. How the deuce was I, a
solitary and inexperienced traveler from California, to defend myself
against such eyes, such blooming cheeks, such honeyed lips and pearly
teeth as these, to say nothing of a form all grace and ability, a
voice that was the very essence of melody, and the fascinating smiles
and blandishments of this wild young creature! It was enough to puzzle
and confound any man of ordinary susceptibility, much less one who had
a natural terror of the female sex. But I suppose it was all right.
The old lady nodded approvingly; and the three old men smoked their
pipes, and, touching their red night-caps, bid me--_Farrel! meget god
reise!_--a pleasant trip! So, without more ado, I cracked the whip,
and off we started. It was not my fault, that was certain. My
conscience was clear of any bad intentions.
We were soon out of sight of the station, and then came a steep hill.
While the pony was pulling and tugging with all his might, the girl
bounced off, landing like a wood-nymph about six feet in the rear of
the cariole; when, with strides that perfectly astonished me, she
began to march up the hill, singing a lively Norwegian ditty as she
sprang over the ruts and ridges of the road. I halted in amazement.
This would never do. Respect for the gentler sex would not permit me
to ride up the hill while so lovely a creature was taking it on foot.
Governed by those high principles of gallantry, augmented and
cultivated by long residence in California, I jumped out of the
cariole, and with persuasive eloquence begged the fair damsel to get
in and drive up the hill on my account; that I greatly preferred
walking; the exercise was congenial--I liked it. At this she looked
astonished, if not suspicious. I fancied she was not used to that
species of homage. At all events, she stoutly declined getting in; and
since it was impossible for me to ride under the circumstances, I
walked by her side to the top of the hill. A coolness was evidently
growing up between us, for she never spoke a word all the way; and I
was too busy trying to keep the horse in the middle of the road and
save my breath to make any farther attempts at conversation.
Having at length reached the summit, the girl directed me to take my
place, which I did at once with great alacrity. With another active
bound she was up behind, holding on as before with both hands to the
back of the seat. Then she whistled to the horse in a style he seemed
to understand perfectly well, for away he dashed down the hill at a
rate of speed that I was certain would very soon result in utter
destruction to the whole party. It was awful to think of being pitched
out and rolling down the precipice, in the arms perhaps of this
dashing young damsel, who, being accustomed to the road, would
doubtless exert herself to save me.
"_Nu! Reise! Reise!_--travel!" cried this extraordinary girl; and
away we went, over rocks, into ruts, against roots and bushes;
bouncing, springing, splashing, and dashing through mud-holes; down
hill and still down; whirling past terrific pits, jagged pinnacles of
rock, and yawning gulfs of darkness; through gloomy patches of pine,
out again into open spaces, and along the brinks of fearful
precipices; over rickety wooden bridges, and through foaming torrents
that dashed out over the road, the wild girl clinging fast behind, the
little pony flying along madly in front, the cariole creaking and
rattling as if going to pieces, myself hanging on to the reins in a
perfect agony of doubt whether each moment would not be our last. I
declare, on the faith of a traveler, it beat all the dangers I had
hitherto encountered summed up together. Trees whirled by, waterfalls
flashed upon my astonished eyes, streaks of sunshine fretted the gloom
with a net-work of light that dazzled and confounded me. I could see
nothing clearly. There was a horrible jumble in my mind of black rocks
and blue eyes, pine forests and flaming red stockings, flying clouds
and flying petticoats, the roar of torrents and the ringing voice of
the maiden as she cried "_Flue! Gaae! Reise!_--Fly! Go it! Travel!"
Only one thought was uppermost--the fear of being dashed to pieces.
Great heavens, what a fate! If I could only stop this infernal little
pony, we might yet be saved! But I dared not attempt it. The slightest
pull at the reins would throw him upon his haunches, and cariole and
all would go spinning over him into some horrible abyss. All this time
the wild damsel behind was getting more and more excited. Now she
whistled, now she shouted "_Skynde pa!_--Faster! faster!" till, fairly
carried away by enthusiasm, she begged me to give her the whip, which
I did, with a faint attempt at prayer. Again she whistled, and shouted
"_Skynde pa!_--Faster! faster!" and then she cracked the most
startling and incomprehensible Norwegian melodies with the whip,
absolutely stunning my ears, while she shouted "_Gaae! Flue!
Reise!_--Go it! Fly! Travel!" Faster and still faster we flew down the
frightful hill. The pony caught the infection of enthusiasm, and now
broke into a frantic run. "Faster! faster!" shrieked the wild girl in
a paroxysm of delight.
By this time I was positively beside myself with terror. No longer
able to distinguish the flying trees, waterfalls, and precipices, I
closed my eyes and gasped for breath. Soon the fearful bouncing of the
cariole aroused me to something like consciousness. We had struck a
rock, and were now spinning along the edge of a mighty abyss on one
wheel, the other performing a sort of balance in the air. I looked
ahead, but there was neither shape nor meaning in the country. It was
all a wild chaos of destructive elements--trees, precipices, red
stockings, and whirling petticoats--toward which we were madly flying.
But there is an end to all troubles upon earth. With thanks to a kind
Providence, I at length caught sight of a long stretch of level road.
Although there were several short turns to be made before reaching it,
there was still hope that it might be gained without any more serious
disaster than the breaking of a leg or an arm. Upon such a casualty as
that I should have compromised at once. If this extraordinary creature
behind would only stop whistling and cracking the whip, and driving
the little pony crazy by her inspiring cries, I might yet succeed in
steering safely into the level road; but the nearer we approached the
bottom of the hill the wilder she became--now actually dancing on the
little board with delight, now leaning over to get a cut at the pony's
tail with the whip, while she whistled more fiercely than ever, and
cried out, from time to time, "_Flue! Gaae! Reise!_" Already the poor
animal was reeking with sweat, and it was a miracle he did not drop
dead on the road.
[Illustration: THE POST-GIRL.]
However, by great good fortune, aided by my skill in driving, we made
the turns, and in a few minutes more were safely jogging along the
level road. Almost breathless, and quite bewildered, I instinctively
turned round to see what manner of wild being this girl behind was. If
you believe me, she was leaning over my shoulder, shaking her sides
laughing at me, her sparkling blue eyes now all ablaze with
excitement, her cheeks glowing like peonies, her lips wide apart,
displaying the most exquisite set of teeth I ever beheld, while her
long golden tresses, bursting from the red handkerchief which served
as a sort of crowning glory to her head, floated in wavy ringlets over
her shoulders. Hermosa! it was enough to thaw an anchorite! She was
certainly very pretty--there was no doubt of that; full of life,
overflowing with health and vitality, and delighted at the confusion
and astonishment of the strange gentleman she had taken in charge.
Can any body tell me what it is that produces such a singular
sensation when one looks over his shoulder and discovers the face of a
pretty and innocent young girl within a few inches of his own, her
beautiful eyes sparkling like a pair of stars, and shooting magic
scintillations through and through him, body and soul, while her
breath falls like a zephyr upon his cheek? Tell me, ye who deal in
metaphysics, what is it? There is certainly a kind of charm in it,
against which no mortal man is proof. Though naturally prejudiced
against the female sex, and firmly convinced that we could get along
in the world much better without them, I was not altogether insensible
to beauty in an artistical point of view, otherwise I should never
have been able to grace the pages of HARPER with the above likeness of
this Norwegian sylph. After all, it must be admitted that they have a
way about them which makes us feel overpowered and irresponsible in
their presence. Doubtless this fair damsel was unconscious of the
damage she was inflicting upon a wayworn and defenseless traveler. Her
very innocence was itself her chiefest charm. Either she was the most
innocent or the most designing of her sex. She thought nothing of
holding on to my shoulder, and talked as glibly and pleasantly, with
her beaming face close to my ear, as if I had been her brother or her
cousin, or possibly her uncle, though I did not exactly like to regard
it in that point of view. What she was saying I could not conjecture,
save by her roguish expression and her merry peals of laughter.
"_Jag kan ikke tale Norsk!_--I can't speak Norwegian"--was all I could
say, at which she laughed more joyously than ever, and rattled off a
number of excellent jokes, no doubt at my helpless condition. Indeed,
I strongly suspected, from a familiar word here and there, that she
was making love to me out of mere sport, though she was guarded enough
not to make any intelligible demonstration to that effect. At last I
got out my vocabulary, and as we jogged quietly along the road, by
catching a word now and then, and making her repeat what she said very
slowly, got so far as to construct something of a conversation.
"What is your name, _skën Jumfru_?" I asked.
"Maria," was the answer.
"A pretty name; and Maria is a very pretty girl."
She tossed her head a little scornfully, as much as to say Maria was
not to be fooled by flattery.
"What is _your_ name?" said Maria, after a pause.
"Mine? Oh, I have forgotten mine."
"Are you an Englishman?"
"No."
"A Frenchman?"
"No."
"A Dutchman?"
"No--I am an American."
"I like Americans--I don't like Englishmen," said the girl.
"Have you a lover?"
"Yes."
"Are you going to be married to him?"
"Yes, in about six months."
"I wish you joy."
"Thank you!"
At this moment a carriage drawn by two horses hove in sight. It was an
English traveling party--an old gentleman and two ladies, evidently
his wife and daughter. As they drew near they seemed to be a little
perplexed at the singular equipage before them--a small horse, nearly
dead and lathered all over with foam; a cariole bespattered with mud;
a dashing fine girl behind, with flaunting hair, a short petticoat,
and a flaming pair of red stockings; myself in the body of the
cariole, covered from head to foot with mire, my beard flying out in
every direction, and my hair still standing on end from the effects of
recent fright--a very singular spectacle to meet in the middle of a
public highway, even in Norway. The road was very narrow at the point
of meeting. It became necessary for one of the vehicles to pull up the
side of the hill a little in order to allow room for the other to
pass. Being the lighter party as well as under obligations of
gallantry, I at once gave way. While endeavoring to make a passage,
the old gentleman gruffly observed to the public generally,
"What an excessively bad road!"
"Very!" said I.
"Beastly!" growled the Englishman.
"Abominable!" said I.
"Oh, you are an Englishman?" said the elderly lady.
"No, madam--an American," I answered, with great suavity.
"Oh, an American!" said the young lady, taking out her note-book;
"dear me, how very interesting!"
"From California," I added, with a smile of pride.
"How very interesting!" exclaimed the young lady.
"A great country," said I.
"Gray," observed the elderly lady, in an under tone, looking very hard
at the girl, who was still standing on the little board at the back of
the cariole, and who coolly and saucily surveyed the traveling party,
"Gray, is that a Norwegian girl?"
"Yes, madam; she is my postillion, only she rides behind, according
to the Norwegian custom."
"Dear me!" cried the young lady, "how very interesting!"
"And dangerous too," I observed.
The lady looked puzzled. She was thinking of dangers to which I had no
reference.
"Dangerous?" exclaimed the young lady.
"Yes; she came near breaking my neck down that hill;" and here I gave
the party a brief synopsis of the adventure.
"Devilish odd!" growled the old Englishman, impatiently. "Good-day,
sir. Come, get up!"
The elderly lady said nothing, but looked suspicious.
"Dear me!" exclaimed the young lady, as they drove off; "how very--"
This was the last I heard, but I suppose she considered it
interesting. The whole affair, no doubt, stands fully recorded in her
note-book.
The way being now clear, we proceeded on our journey. In a little
while the station-house was in sight, and after a few minutes' drive I
was obliged to part from my interesting companion. At first I
hesitated about proffering the usual fee of four shillings; but, upon
reflection, it occurred to me that I had no right to consider her any
thing more than a post-boy. It was worth something extra to travel
with one so lively and entertaining, so I handed her double the usual
allowance, at which she made a very polite courtesy and greatly
relieved my embarrassment by giving a hearty shake of the hand and
wishing me a pleasant journey. This was the last I saw of my Norwegian
Diana. She is a young damsel of great beauty and vivacity, not to say
a little wild. I trust she is now happily married to the object of her
affections.
CHAPTER XXXI.
HOW THEY LIVE.
Every where on the route through the interior I found the peasants
kind, hospitable, and simple-hearted. Sometimes I made a detour of
several miles from the main road for the purpose of catching a glimpse
of the home-life of the farmers; and, imperfect as my means of
communication were, I never had any difficulty in making acquaintance
with them after announcing myself as a traveler from California. They
had all heard, more or less, of that wonderful land of gold, and
entertained the most vague and exaggerated notions of its mineral
resources. It was not uncommon to find men who believed that the whole
country was yellow with gold; that such quantities of that ore
abounded in it as to be of little or no value. When I told them that
the country was very rich in the precious metals, but that every hill
was not a mass of gold, nor the bed of every river lined with rocks
and pebbles of the same material, they looked a little incredulous,
not to say disappointed. Many of them seemed surprised that a
Californian should be traveling through a distant land like Norway
merely for amusement, and few seemed to be entirely satisfied when I
assured them, in answer to their questions, that I was not very rich;
that I was neither a merchant, nor a speculator, nor the owner of gold
mines, but simply an indifferent artist making sketches of their
country for pastime. French, German, and English artists they could
believe in, for they saw plenty of them in the wilds of Norway every
summer; but what use would such a poor business be in California, they
said, where every man could make a thousand dollars a day digging for
gold? I even fancied they looked at my rough and dusty costume as if
they thought it concealed a glittering uniform, such as the rich men
of my country must naturally wear when they go abroad to visit foreign
lands. It was impossible to convince them that I was not extravagantly
wealthy. On any other point there might be room for doubt, but the
pertinacity with which they insisted upon that afforded me much
amusement; and since I could not dispel the illusion, it generally
cost me a few extra shillings when I had any thing to pay to avoid the
stigma of meanness. Not that my extraordinary wealth ever gave them a
plea for imposition or extortion. Such an idea never entered their
heads. On the contrary, their main purpose seemed to be to show every
possible kindness to the distinguished stranger; and more than once,
at some of the post-stations, I had to remind them of things which
they had omitted in the charge. For this very reason I was in a
measure compelled to be rather more profuse than travelers usually
are, so that the state from which I have the honor to hail owes me a
considerable amount of money by this time for the handsome manner in
which I have sustained its reputation. At some of the stopping-places
on the road, where I obtained lodgings for the night, it was not
uncommon to find intelligent and educated families of cultivated
manners. Education of late years has made considerable progress in
Norway; and the rising generation, owing to the facilities afforded by
the excellent school system established throughout the country, but
especially in the principal towns, will not be in any respect behind
the times, so far as regards intellectual progress. It is the
simplicity and honesty of these good people, however, that form their
principal and most charming characteristic. To one long accustomed to
sharp dealing and unscrupulous trickery, it is really refreshing their
confidence in the integrity of a stranger. Usually they left the
settlement of accounts to myself, merely stating that I must determine
what I owed by adding up the items according to the tariff; and,
although my knowledge of the language was so limited, I nowhere had
the slightest approach to a dispute about the payment of expenses. On
one occasion, not wishing to forfeit this confidence, I was obliged to
ride back half a mile to pay for two cigars which I had forgotten in
making up the reckoning, and of which the inn-keeper had not thought
proper to remind me, or had forgotten to keep any account himself. No
surprise was manifested at this conscientious act--the inn-keeper
merely nodding good-naturedly when I handed him the money, with the
remark that it was "all right."
In the districts remote from the sea-ports, the peasants, as may well
be supposed, are extremely ignorant of the great outside world. Sweden
and Denmark are the only countries known to them besides their own
"Gamle Norge," save such vague notions of other lands as they pick up
from occasional travelers. To them "Amerika" is a terra incognita. A
letter once or twice a year from some emigrant to the members of his
family goes the rounds of the district, and gives them all the
knowledge they have of that distant land of promise; and when they
listen, with gaping eyes and open mouths, to the wonderful stories of
adventure, life, enterprise, and wealth detailed by the enthusiastic
rover, it is no wonder they shake their heads and say that Christian,
or Hans, or Olé (as the case may be), "always was a capital fellow at
drawing a long bow." They firmly believe in ghosts and supernatural
visitations of all sorts, but are very incredulous about any country
in the world being equal to "Gamle Norge." Naturally enough, they
consider their climate the most genial, their barren rocks the most
fertile, their government the best and most liberal on the face of the
earth, and themselves the most highly favored of the human race.
Goldsmith must have had special reference to the Norwegians when he
sang of "that happiest spot below:"
"The shuddering tenant of the frigid zone
Boldly proclaims the happiest spot his own."
And why should they be otherwise than contented--if such a thing as
contentment can exist upon earth? They have few wants and many
children; a country free from internal commotion, and too far removed
from the great scenes of European strife to excite the jealousy of
external powers; sufficient food and raiment to satisfy the ordinary
necessities of life, and no great extremes of wealth or poverty to
militate against their independence, either in a political or social
point of view. With good laws, an excellent Constitution, and a fair
representation in the Storthing, they are justly proud of their
freedom, and deeply imbued with the spirit of patriotism.
Very little of poverty or beggary is to be seen by the wayside during
a tour through Norway. Only at one point between Kringelen and
Laurgaard--a wild and barren district exceedingly savage in its
aspect, situated in a narrow gorge of the mountains near the head of
the Logen--was I solicited for alms. A portion of this route, after
passing Sinclair's Monument, is rudely fenced in, so as to render
available every foot of the narrow valley. The road passes directly
through the little farms, which at this stage of the journey are poor
and unproductive. The climate is said to be very severe in this
district, in consequence of its altitude, and the sharp winds which
sweep down from the mountain gorges. At every gateway a gang of ragged
little children always stood ready to open the gate, for which, of
course, they expected a few shillings; and as these gates occur at
intervals of every few hundred yards for some distance, it produces a
sensible effect upon one's purse to get through. Passing through some
wretched hamlets in this vicinity, crowds of old women hobbled out to
beg alms, and I did not get clear of the regiments of children who ran
along behind the cariole to receive the remainder of my small change
for several miles. Strange to say, this was the only place during my
rambles through the interior in which I saw any thing like beggary.
Generally speaking, the farming lands are sufficiently productive to
supply all the wants of the peasants, and many of the farmers are
even comfortably situated.
The houses in which these country people reside are not altogether
unlike the small log cabins of the early settlers on our Western
frontier. I have seen many such on the borders of Missouri and Kansas.
Built in the most primitive style of pine logs, they stand upon stumps
or columns of stone, elevated some two or three feet from the ground,
in order to allow a draft of air underneath, which in this humid
climate is considered necessary for health. They seldom consist of
more than two or three rooms, but make up in number what they lack in
size. Thus a single farming establishment often comprises some ten or
a dozen little cabins, besides the large barn, which is the nucleus
around which they all centre; with smaller cribs for pigs, chickens,
etc., and here and there a shed for the cows and sheep, all huddled
together among the rocks or on some open hill-side, without the least
apparent regard to direction or architectural effect. The roofs are
covered with sod, upon which it is not uncommon to see patches of
oats, weeds, moss, flowers, or whatever comes most convenient to form
roots and give consistency and strength to this singular overtopping.
The object, I suppose, is to prevent the transmission of heat during
the severe season of winter. Approaching some of these hamlets or
farming establishments during the summer months, the traveler is
frequently at a loss to distinguish their green-sodded roofs from the
natural sod of the hill-sides, so that one is liable at any time to
plunge into the midst of a settlement before he is aware of its
existence. Something of a damp, earthy look about them, the weedy or
grass-covered tops, the logs green and moss-grown, the dripping eaves,
the veins of water oozing out of the rocks, give them a peculiarly
Northern and chilling effect, and fill the mind with visions of long
and dreary winters, rheumatisms, colds, coughs, and consumptions, to
which it is said these people are subject. Nothing so wild and
primitive is to be seen in any other part of Europe. A silence almost
death-like hangs over these little hamlets during a great part of the
day, when the inhabitants are out in the hills attending their flocks
or cultivating their small patches of ground. I passed many groups of
cabins without seeing the first sign of life, save now and then a few
chickens or pigs rooting about the barn-yard. The constant impression
was that it was Sunday, or at least a holiday, and that the people
were either at church or asleep. For one who seeks retirement from the
busy haunts of life, where he can indulge in uninterrupted reflection,
I know of no country that can equal Norway. There are places in the
interior where I am sure he would be astonished at the sound of his
own voice. The deserts of Africa can scarcely present a scene of such
utter isolation. With a rod in his hand, he can, if given to the
gentle art, sit and dream upon some mossy bank,
"In close covert by some brook,
Where no profaner eye may look,
And hide him from day's garish noon."
Thus you often come upon an English sportsman waiting for a nibble.
[Illustration: WAITING FOR A NIBBLE.]
The food of the peasants consists principally of black bread, milk,
butter, and cheese. Meat is too expensive for very general use, though
at certain seasons of the year they indulge in it once or twice a
week. Coffee is a luxury to which they are much addicted. Even the
poorest classes strain a point to indulge in this favorite narcotic,
and in no part of Norway did I fail to get a good cup of coffee. It is
a very curious fact that the best coffee to be had at the most
fashionable hotels on the Continent of Europe--always excepting
Paris--is inferior to that furnished to the traveler at the commonest
station-house in Norway. This is indeed one of the luxuries of a tour
through this part of Scandinavia. The cream is rich and pure, and it
is a rare treat to get a large bowlful of it for breakfast, with as
much milk as you please, and no limit to bread and butter. Your
appetite is not measured by infinitesimal bits and scraps as in
Germany. A good wholesome meal is spread before you in the genuine
backwoods style, and you may eat as much as you please, which is a
rare luxury to one who has been stinted and starved at the hotels on
the Continent. I remember, at one station beyond the Dovre Fjeld,
Bennett's Hand-book says, "Few rooms, but food supplied in first-rate
style when Miss Marit is at home. She will be much offended if you do
not prove that you have a good appetite." On my arrival at this place,
not wishing to offend Miss Marit--for whom I entertained the highest
respect in consequence of her hospitable reputation--I called for
every thing I could think of, and when it was placed upon the table
by that accomplished young lady (a very pleasant, pretty young woman,
by-the-way), fell to work and made it vanish at a most astonishing
rate. Miss Marit stood by approvingly. During a pause in my heavy
labors I called the attention of this estimable person to her own name
in the printed pamphlet, at which she blushed and looked somewhat
confused. Possibly there might be a mistake about it.
"Your name is Miss Marit?" I asked, very politely.
"Ja."
"And this is Miss Marit in print?"
"Ja."
She took the book and tried to read it.
"Nikka Forstoe!"--she didn't understand.
"What does it say?" she asked, rather gravely.
Here was a job--to translate the paragraph into Norwegian! Besides, it
would not do to translate it literally, so I made a sort of impromptu
paraphrase upon it.
"Oh! it says Miss Marit is a very pretty young lady."
"Ja!"--blushing and looking somewhat astonished.
"And Miss Marit is a very nice housekeeper."
"Ja."
"And Miss Marit makes splendid coffee, and thoroughly understands how
to cook a beefsteak."
"Ja!"
"And Miss Marit would make a most excellent wife for any young
gentleman who could succeed in winning her affections!"
"Nei!" said the young lady, blushing again, and looking more
astonished than ever.
"Ja," said I, "it is all in print"--adding, with an internal
reservation, "or ought to be."
Who can blame me for paying tribute to Miss Marit's kindness and
hospitality? She is certainly deserving of much higher praise than
that bestowed upon her, and I hope Mr. Bennett will pardon me for the
liberal style of my translation. If he didn't mean all I said, let the
responsibility rest upon me, for I certainly meant every word of it.
The farming districts are limited chiefly to the valleys along the
river-courses, and such portions of arable lands as lie along the
shores of the Fjords. A large proportion of the country is extremely
wild and rugged, and covered, for the most part, with dense pine
forests. The peasants generally own their own farms, which are small,
and cut up into patches of pasture, grain-lands, and tracts of forest.
Even the most unpromising nooks among the rocks, in many parts of the
Gudbransdalen Valley, where plows are wholly unavailable, are rooted
up by means of hoes, and planted with oats and other grain. I
sometimes saw as many as forty or fifty of these little arable patches
perched up among the rocks, hundreds of feet above the roofs of the
houses, where it would seem dangerous for goats to browse. The log
cabins peep out from among the rocks and pine-clad cliffs all along
the course of the Logen, giving the country a singular speckled
appearance. This, it must be remembered, is one of the best districts
in the interior. The richest agricultural region is said to be that
bordering on the shores of the Miösen. One of the comforts enjoyed by
the peasants, and without which it would scarcely be possible for them
to exist in such a rigorous climate, consists in the unlimited
quantity of fuel to which they have such easy access. This is an
inconceivable luxury during the long winter months; and their large
open fireplaces and blazing fires, even in the cool summer evenings,
constantly remind one of the homes of the settlers in the Far West.
When the roads are covered with snow the true season of internal
communication commences. Then the means of transportation and travel
are greatly facilitated, and the clumsy wagons used in summer are put
aside for the lighter and more convenient sledges with which every
farmer is abundantly provided. All along the route the snow-plows may
be seen turned up against the rocks, ready to be used during the
winter to clear and level the roads. In summer the means of
transportation are little better than those existing between
Placerville and Carson Valley.
[Illustration: SNOW-PLOW.]
It was during the height of the harvesting season that I passed
through the Gudbransdalen. One of the most characteristic sights at
this time of the year is the extraordinary amount of labor imposed
upon the women, who seem really to do most of the heavy work. I
thought I had seen the last of that in the Thuringenwald, Odenwald,
and Schwartzwald, while on a foot-tour through Germany; but even the
Germans are not so far advanced in civilization in this respect as the
Norwegians, who do not hesitate to make their women cut wood, haul
logs, pull carts, row boats, fish, and perform various other kinds of
labor usually allotted to the stronger sex, which even a German would
consider rather heavy for his "frow." The men, in addition to this
ungallant trait, are much addicted to the use of tobacco and native
corn-brandy--which, however, I can not but regard as a sign of
civilization, since the same habits exist, to some extent, in our own
country. Chewing and drinking are just as common as in California, the
most enlightened country in the world. Wherever I saw a set of
drunken fellows roaring and rollicking at some wayside inn, their
faces smeared with tobacco, and their eyes rolling in their heads, I
naturally felt drawn toward them by the great free-masonry of familiar
customs.
[Illustration: A DRINKING BOUT.]
The system of farming followed by the peasants is exceedingly
primitive, though doubtless well adapted to the climate and soil.
Nothing can be more striking to a stranger than the odd shapes of the
wagons and carts, and the rudeness of the agricultural implements,
which must be patterned upon those in vogue during the time of Odin,
the founder of the Norwegian race. Owing to the humidity of the
climate, it is necessary in harvest time to dry the hay and grain by
staking it out in the fields on long poles, so that the sun and air
may penetrate every part of it. The appearance of a farm is thus
rendered unique as well as picturesque. In the long twilight nights of
summer these ghostly stokes present the appearance of a gang of
heathenish spirits standing about in the fields, with their long
beards waving in the air, and their dusky robes trailing over the
stubbles. The figures thus seen at every turn of the road often assume
the most striking spectral forms, well calculated to augment those
wild superstitions which prevail throughout the country. It was
impossible for me ever to get quite rid of the idea that they were
descendants of the old Scandinavian gods, holding counsel over the
affairs of the nation, especially when some passing breeze caused
their arms and robes to flutter in the twilight, and their heads to
swing to and fro, as if in the enthusiasm of their ghostly
deliberations.
[Illustration: A NORWEGIAN FARM.]
[Illustration: NORWEGIAN CHURCH.]
Mingled with the wild superstitions of the people their piety is a
prominent trait. Their prevailing religion is Episcopal Lutheran,
though Catholicism and other religions are tolerated by an act of the
Storthing, with the exception of Mormonism, which is prohibited by
law. A considerable number of proselytes to that sect have emigrated
to Salt Lake. This prevailing spirit of piety is observable even in
the wildest parts of the country, where every little hamlet has its
church, and neither old nor young neglect their religious services.
Most of these churches are built of wood, with a steeple of the same
material, shingled over and painted black, so as to present the most
striking contrast to the snows which cover the face of the country
during the greater part of the year.
[Illustration: PARISH SCHOOLMASTER.]
The parish schoolmaster is a most important personage in these rural
districts. He it is who trains up the rising generation, teaches the
young idea how to shoot, and
"Out of great things and small draweth the secrets of
the universe."
He is greatly revered by the simple-minded old farmers, is cherished
and respected by the mothers of families, enthusiastically admired and
generally aspired to by the village belles, and held in profound awe
by all the little urchins of the neighborhood. He speaketh unknown
tongues; he diveth into the depths of abstruse sciences; he talketh
with the air of one burdened with much learning; he "argueth the
cycles of the stars from a pebble flung by a child;" he likewise
teacheth reading, writing, and arithmetic, and applieth the rod to the
juvenile seat of understanding, as shown on the preceding page.
Soon after leaving Storkterstad, a station about two days' journey
from Lillehammer, on the main road to Trondhjem, I passed through a
very steep and rugged defile in the mountains, with jagged rocks on
the right and the foaming waters of the Logen on the left, where my
attention was called by the skydskaarl to a small monument by the
roadside hearing an inscription commemorative of the death of Colonel
Sinclair. If I remember correctly, a fine description is given of this
celebrated passage by Mögge, whose graphic sketches of Norwegian
scenery I had frequent occasion to admire, during my tour, for their
beauty and accuracy. I fully agree with my friend Bayard Taylor, that
the traveler can find no better guide to the Fjelds and Fjords of this
wild country than "Afraja" and "Life and Love in Norway." Laing has
also given an interesting account of the massacre of Colonel
Sinclair's party. From his version of this famous incident in
Norwegian history it appears that, during the war between Christian
the Fourth of Denmark and Gustavus Adolphus of Sweden, while the Danes
held the western coast of Norway, Colonel Sinclair, a Scotchman,
desiring to render assistance to the Swedes, landed at Romsdalen, on
the coast, with a party of nine hundred followers. Another detachment
of his forces landed at Trondhjem. It was their intention to fight
their way across the mountains and join the Swedish forces on the
frontier. Sinclair's party met with no resistance till they arrived at
the pass of Kringelen, where three hundred peasants, hearing of their
approach, had prepared an ambush. Every thing was arranged with the
utmost secrecy. An abrupt mountain on the right, abounding in immense
masses of loose rock, furnished the means of a terrible revenge for
the ravages committed by the Scotch on their march from Romsdalen. The
road winds around the foot of this mountain, making a narrow pass,
hemmed in by the roaring torrents of the Logen on the one side and
abrupt cliffs on the other. Across the river, which here dashes with
frightful rapidity through the narrow gorge of the mountains, the
country wears an exceedingly weird and desolate aspect; the ravines
and summits of the mountains are darkened by gloomy forests of pine,
relieved only by hoary and moss-covered cliffs overhanging the rushing
waters of the Logen. On the precipitous slopes of the pass, hundreds
of feet above the road, the peasants gathered enormous masses of rock,
logs of wood, and even trunks of trees, which they fixed in such a way
that, at a moment's notice, they could precipitate the whole terrible
avalanche upon the heads of the enemy.
Such was the secrecy with which the peasants managed the whole affair,
that the Scotch, ignorant even of the existence of a foe, marched
along in imaginary security till they reached the middle of the narrow
pass, when they were suddenly overwhelmed and crushed beneath the
masses of rocks and loose timbers launched upon them by the
Norwegians. Rushing from their ambush, the infuriated peasants soon
slaughtered the maimed and wounded, leaving, according to some
authorities, only two of the enemy to tell the tale. Others, however,
say that as many as sixty escaped, but were afterward caught and
massacred. Attached to this fearful story of retribution, Laing
mentions a romantic incident, which is still currently told in the
neighborhood. A young peasant was prevented from joining in the attack
by his sweet-heart, to whom he was to be married the next day. She,
learning that the wife of Colonel Sinclair was among the party, sent
her lover to offer his assistance; but the Scotch lady, mistaking his
purpose, shot him dead. Such is the tragic history that casts over
this wild region a mingled interest of horror and romance.
The road from Laurgaard beyond the pass of the Kringelen ascends a
high mountain. On the right is a series of foaming cataracts, and
nothing can surpass the rugged grandeur of the view as you reach the
highest eminence before descending toward Braendhagen. Here the
country is one vast wilderness of pine-clad mountains, green winding
valleys, and raging torrents of water dashing down over the jagged
rocks thousands of feet below. It was nearly night when I reached
Dombaas, the last station before ascending the Dovre Fjeld.
A telegraphic station at Dombaas gives something of a civilized aspect
to this stopping-place, otherwise rather a primitive-looking
establishment. The people, however, are very kind and hospitable, and
somewhat noted for their skill in carving bone and wooden
knife-handles. I should have mentioned that, wild as this part of the
country is, the traveler is constantly reminded by the telegraphic
poles all along the route that he is never quite beyond the limits of
civilization. Such is the force of habit that I was strongly tempted
to send a message to somebody from Dombaas; but, upon turning the
matter over in my mind, could think of nobody within the limits of
Norway who felt sufficient interest in my explorations to be likely to
derive much satisfaction from the announcement that I had reached the
edge of the Dovre Fjeld in safety. The name of a waiter who was good
enough to black my boots at the Victoria Hotel occurred to me, but it
was hardly possible he would appreciate a telegraphic dispatch from
one who had no more pressing claims to his attention. I thought of
sending a few lines of remembrance to the Wild Girl who had come so
near breaking my neck. This notion, however, I gave over upon
reflecting that she might attach undue weight to my expressions of
friendship, and possibly take it into her head that I was making love
to her--than which nothing could be farther from my intention. I had a
social chat with the telegraph-man, however--a very respectable and
intelligent person--who gave me the latest news; and with this, and
good supper and bed, I was obliged to rest content.
[Illustration: DOVRE FJELD.]
CHAPTER XXXII.
JOHN BULL ABROAD.
Leaving Dombaas at an early hour, I soon began to ascend a long slope,
reaching, by a gradual elevation, to the Dovre Fjeld. The vegetation
began to grow more and more scanty on the wayside, consisting mostly
of lichens and reindeer moss. I passed through some stunted groves of
pine, which, however, were bleached and almost destitute of foliage.
The ground on either side of the road was soft, black, and boggy,
abounding in springs and scarcely susceptible of cultivation. At this
elevation grain is rarely planted, though I was told potatoes and
other esculents are not difficult to raise. On the left of the road,
approaching the summit, lies a range of snow-capped mountains between
the Dovre Fjeld and Molde; on the right a series of rocky and barren
hills of sweeping outline, presenting an exceedingly desolate aspect.
In the course of an hour after leaving Dombaas, having walked most of
the way, I fairly reached the grand plateau of the Dovre Fjeld. The
scene at this point of the journey is inexpressibly desolate.
Bare, whitish-colored hills bound the horizon on the right; in front
is a dreary waste, through which the road winds like a thread till
lost in the dim haze of the distance; and to the left the everlasting
snows of Snaehatten. A few wretched cabins are scattered at remote
intervals over the desert plains, in which the shepherds seek shelter
from the inclemency of the weather, which even in midsummer is often
piercingly raw. Herds of rattle, sheep, and goats were grazing over
the rocky wastes of the Fjeld. Reindeer are sometimes seen in this
vicinity, but not often within sight of the road. The only vegetation
produced here is reindeer moss, and a coarse sort of grass growing in
bunches over the plain. I met several shepherds on the way dressed in
something like a characteristic costume--frieze jackets with brass
buttons, black knee-breeches, a red night-cap, and armed with the
usual staff or shepherd's crook, represented in pictures, and much
discoursed of by poets:
"Methinks it were a happy life
To be no better than a homely swain;"
but not on the Dovre Fjelds of Norway. It must be rather a dull
business in that region, taking into consideration the barren plains,
the bleak winds, and desolate aspect of the country. No sweet hawthorn
bushes are there, beneath which these rustic philosophers can sit,
"Looking on their silly sheep."
Shepherd life must be a very dismal reality indeed. And yet there is
no accounting for tastes. At one point of the road, beyond Folkstuen,
where a sluggish lagoon mingles its waters with the barren slopes of
the Fjeld, I saw an Englishman standing up to his knees in a dismal
marsh fishing for trout.
The weather was cold enough to strike a chill into one's very marrow;
yet this indefatigable sportsman had come more than a thousand miles
from his native country to enjoy himself in this way. He was a genuine
specimen of an English snob--self-sufficient, conceited, and
unsociable; looking neither to the right nor the left, and terribly
determined not to commit himself by making acquaintance with casual
travelers speaking the English tongue. I stopped my cariole within a
few paces and asked him "what luck?" One would think the sound of his
native tongue would have been refreshing to him in this dreary
wilderness; but, without deigning to raise his head, he merely
answered in a gruff tone, "Don't know, sir--don't know!" I certainly
did not suspect him of knowing much, but thought that question at
least would not be beyond the limits of his intelligence. Finding him
insensible to the approaches of humanity, I revenged myself for his
rudeness by making a sketch of his person, which I hope will be
recognized by his friends in England should he meet with any
misfortune in the wilds of Norway. They will at least know where to
search for his body, and be enabled to recognize it when they find it.
This man's sense of enjoyment reminded me of the anecdote told by
Longfellow in Hyperion, of an Englishman who sat in a tub of cold
water every morning while he ate his breakfast and read the
newspapers.
[Illustration: PLAYING HIM OUT.]
I met with many such in the course of my tour. Is it not a little
marvelous what hardships people will encounter for pleasure? Here was
a man of mature age, in the enjoyment perhaps of a comfortable
income, who had left his country, with all its attractions, for a
dreary desert in which he was utterly isolated from the world. He was
not traveling--not reading, not surrounded by a few congenial friends
who could make a brief exile pleasant, but utterly alone; ignorant, no
doubt, of the language spoken by the few shepherds in the
neighborhood; up to his knees in a pool of cold water; stubbornly
striving against the most adverse circumstances of wind and weather to
torture out of the water a few miserable little fish! Of what material
can such a man's brain be composed, if he be gifted with brain at all?
Is it mud, clay, or water; or is it all a bog? Possibly he was a lover
of nature; but if you examine his portrait you will perceive that
there is nothing in his personal appearance to warrant that suspicion.
Even if such were the case, this was not the charming region described
by the quaint old Walton, where the scholar can turn aside "toward the
high honeysuckle hedge," or "sit and sing while the shower falls upon
the teeming earth, viewing the silver streams glide silently toward
their centre, the tempestuous sea," beguiled by the harmless lambs
till, with a soul possessed with content, he feels "lifted above the
earth." Nor was the solitary angler of the Dovre Fjeld a man likely to
be lifted from the earth by any thing so fragile as the beauties of
nature. His weight--sixteen stone at least--would be much more likely
to sink him into it.
As I approached the neighborhood of Djerkin on the Dovre Fjeld, famous
as a central station for hunting expeditions, I met several English
sportsmen armed with rifles, double-barreled guns, pistols, and other
deadly weapons, on their way to the defiles of the adjacent mountains
in search of the black bears which are said to infest that region. One
of these enthusiastic gentlemen was seated in a cariole, and traveled
for some distance in front of me. Taking into view the rotundity of
his person, which overhung the little vehicle on every side, I could
not but picture to myself the extraordinary spectacle that would be
presented to any observant eye in case this ponderous individual
should suddenly come in contact with one of those ferocious animals.
[Illustration: ENGLISH SPORTSMAN.]
Here you have him, just as he sat before me--a back view, to be sure,
but the only one I could get in the emergency of the moment. It will
be easy to imagine, from the dexterous grace of his figure, how he
will bound over the rocks, climb up the rugged points of the
precipices, hang by the roots and branches of trees, dodge the attacks
of the enemy, crawl through the brush, and, in the event of an
unfavorable turn in the battle, retreat to some position of security.
No man can be blamed for running when he is sure to be worsted in an
encounter of this kind. Many a brave Californian has taken to his
heels when pursued by a grizzly, and I have scarcely a doubt that I
would pursue the same course myself under similar circumstances. Only
it must look a little ludicrous to see a fat Englishman, a
representative of the British Lion, forced to adopt this mortifying
alternative rather than suffer himself to be torn into beefsteaks. It
may be, however, that in this instance our Nimrod has suddenly
discovered that it is about dinner-time, and is hurrying back to camp
lest the beef should be overdone.
[Illustration: BEAR CHASE.]
These bear-hunting Englishmen take care to have as many chances on
their own side as possible. Hence they usually go into the mountains
well provided with guides, ammunition, provisions, etc., and prepare
the way by first securing the bear in some favored locality. This is
done by killing a calf or hog, and placing the carcass in the required
position. A hired attendant lies in wait until he discovers the bear,
when he comes down to the station or camp, and notifies the hunter
that it is time to start out. Thus the risk of life is greatly
reduced, and the prospect of securing some game proportionally
augmented. The black bears of Norway are not very dangerous, however,
and, hunted in this manner, it requires no great skill to kill them.
They are generally to be found in the higher mountains and defiles, a
few miles from some farming settlement. In winter, when their
customary food is scarce, they often commit serious depredations upon
the stock of the farmers. Every facility is freely afforded by the
peasants for their destruction, and every bear killed is considered so
many cattle saved.
[Illustration: PEASANT WOMEN AT WORK.]
It was late in the afternoon when I descended a rocky and pine-covered
hill, and came in sight of the station called Djerkin, celebrated as
one of the best in the interior of Norway. This place is kept by an
old Norwegian peasant family of considerable wealth, and is a favorite
resort of English sportsmen bound on fishing and hunting excursions
throughout the wilds of the Dovre Fjeld. The main buildings and
outhouses are numerous and substantial, and stand on the slope of the
hill which forms the highest point of the Fjeld on the road from
Christiania to Trondhjem. The appearance of this isolated group of
buildings on the broad and barren face of the hill had much in it to
remind me of some of the old missionary establishments in California;
and the resemblance was increased by the scattered herds of cattle
browsing upon the parched and barren slopes of the Fjeld, which in
this vicinity are as much like the old ranch lands of San Diego County
as one region of country wholly different in climate can be like
another. A few cultivated patches of ground near the station, upon
which the peasants were at work gathering in the scanty harvest,
showed that even in this rigorous region the attempts at agriculture
were not altogether unsuccessful. As usual, the principal burden of
labor seemed to fall upon the women, who were digging, hoeing, and
raking with a lusty will that would have done credit to the men.
CHAPTER XXXIII.
WOMEN IN NORWAY AND GERMANY.
I must say that of all the customs prevailing in the different parts
of Europe, not excepting the most civilized states of Germany, this
one of making the women do all the heavy work strikes me as the
nearest approximation to the perfection of domestic discipline. The
Diggers of California and the Kaffres of Africa understand this thing
exactly, and no man of any spirit belonging to those tribes would any
more think of performing the drudgery which he imposes upon his wife
and daughters than a German or Norwegian. What is the use of having
wives and children if they don't relieve us of our heavy work? In that
respect we Americans are very much behind the times. We pay such
absurd devotion to the weakness of woman that they rule us with a
despotism unknown in any other country. Their smiles are threats, and
their tears are despotic manifestoes, against which the bravest of us
dare not rebel. It is absolutely horrible to think of the condition of
servitude in which we are placed by the extraordinary powers vested
in, and so relentlessly exercised by, the women of America. I, for
one, am in favor of a revival of the old laws of Nuremberg, by which
female tyranny was punished. By a decree of the famous Council of
Eight, any woman convicted of beating her husband or otherwise
maltreating him was forced to wear a dragon's head for the period of
three days; and if she did not, at the expiration of that date, ask
his pardon, she was compelled to undergo a regimen of bread and water
for the space of three weeks, or until effectually reduced to
submission. Something must be done, or we shall be compelled sooner or
later to adopt a clause in the Constitution prohibiting from admission
the State of Matrimony. What would the ladies do then? I think that
would bring them to their senses.
Not only in the matter of domestic discipline, but of business and
pleasure, are the people of Europe infinitely ahead of us. In France
many of the railway stations are attended by female clerks, and in
Germany the beer-saloons are ornamented by pretty girls, who carry
around the foaming schoppens, having a spare smile and a joke for
every customer. Of opera-singers, dancers, and female fiddlers, the
most famous are produced in Europe. The wheeling girls of Hamburg, who
roll after the omnibuses in circus fashion, are the only specimens in
the line of popular attractions that I have not yet seen in the
streets or public resorts of New York.
[Illustration: WHEELING GIRLS.]
What would be thought of half a dozen of these street acrobats
rolling down Broadway or the Fifth Avenue? Doubtless they would
attract considerable attention, and probably turn many a good penny. I
fancy the Bowery boys would enjoy this sort of thing. A pretty girl of
sixteen or seventeen, with her crinoline securely bundled up between
her ankles, wheeling merrily along after an omnibus at the rate of
five miles an hour, would be an attractive as well as extraordinary
spectacle. For my part, I would greatly prefer it to our best female
lectures on phrenology or physiology. I think a girl who can roll in
that way must be possessed of uncommon genius. The wheeling boys of
London are but clumsy spectacle compared with this. No man of
sensibility can witness such a sight without regarding it as the very
poetry of motion.
But this digression has led me a little out of the way. I was on the
road to Djerkin. A sharp pull of half a mile up the hill brought me to
the door of the station, where I was kindly greeted by the family.
Descending from my cariole a little stiff after the last long stage, I
entered the general sitting-room, where there was a goodly assemblage
of customers smoking and drinking, and otherwise enjoying themselves.
The landlady, however, would not permit me to stop in such rude
quarters, but hurried me at once into the fine room of the
establishment. While she was preparing a venison steak and some
coffee, I took a survey of the room, which was certainly ornamented in
a very artistical manner. The sofa was covered with little scraps of
white net-work; the bureau was dotted all over with little angels made
of gauze, highly-colored pin-cushions, and fanciful paper boxes and
card-stands. The walls were decorated with paintings of cows, stags,
rocks, waterfalls, and other animals, and gems of Norwegian scenery,
the productions of the genius of the family--the oldest son, a Justice
of the Peace for the District, now absent on business at Christiania.
They were very tolerably executed. The old lady was so proud of them
that she took care to call my attention to their merits immediately
upon entering the room, informing me, with much warmth of manner, that
her son was a highly respectable man, of wonderful talents, who had
held the honorable position of Justice of the Peace for the past ten
years, and that there was something in my face that reminded her of
her dear boy. In fact, she thought our features bore a striking
resemblance--only Hansen had rather a more melancholy expression, his
wife having unfortunately died about three years ago (here the poor
old lady heaved a profound sigh). But I could judge for myself. There
was his portrait, painted by a German artist who spent some months at
this place last summer. I looked at the portrait with some curiosity.
It was that of a man about forty years of age, with a black skull-cap
on his head, a long queue behind, and a pair of spectacles on his
nose--his face very thin and of a cadaverous expression; just such a
man as you would expect to find upon a justice's bench of a country
district in Norway. Was it possible I bore any resemblance to this
learned man? The very idea was so startling, not to say flattering,
that I could hardly preserve my composure. I mumbled over something to
the effect that it was a good face--for scenic purposes; but every
time I tried to acknowledge the likeness to myself the words stuck in
my throat. Finally, I was forced to ask the landlady if she would be
so kind as to bring me a glass of brandy-wine, for I was afraid she
would discover the internal convulsions which threatened every moment
to rend my ribs asunder. While she was looking after the brandy-wine I
made a hasty copy of the portrait, and I now leave it to the impartial
reader to decide upon the supposed resemblance. It may be like me, but
I confess the fact never would have impressed itself upon my mind from
any personal observation of my own countenance taken in front of a
looking-glass.
[Illustration: JUSTICE OF THE PEACE.]
There was something so genial and cozy about the inn at Djerkin that I
partially resolved to stop all night. At dinner-time the landlord made
his appearance steaming hot from the kitchen. I no longer hesitated
about staying. I am a great believer in the physiognomy of inns as
well as of landlords. Traveling through a wild country like Norway,
where there is little beyond the scenery to attract attention, the
unpretending stations by the wayside assume a degree of importance
equaled only by the largest cities in other countries. The approach,
the aspect of the place, the physiognomy of the house, become matters
of the deepest interest to the solitary wayfarer, who clings to these
episodes in the day's journey as the connecting links that bind him to
the great family of man. I claim to be able to tell from the general
expression of an inn, commencing at the chimney-top and ending at the
steps of the front door, exactly what sort of cheer is to be had
within--whether the family are happily bound together in bonds of
affection; how often the landlord indulges in a bout of hard drinking;
and the state of control under which he is kept by the female head of
the establishment; nay, I can almost guess, from the general aspect of
the house, the exact weight and digestive capacity of mine host; for
if the inn promise well for the creature comforts, so will the
inn-keeper. And what can be more cheering to a tired wayfarer than to
be met at the door by a jolly red-faced old fellow--
"His fair round belly with fat capon lined"--
beefsteaks in the expression of his eye; his bald pate the fac-simile
of a rump of mutton; plum-puddings and apple-dumplings in every curve
of his chin; his body the living embodiment of a cask of beer
supported by two pipes of generous wine; the whole man overflowing
with rich juices and essences, gravies, and strong drinks--a
breathing incarnation of all the good things of life, whom to look
upon is to feel good-natured and happy in the present, and hopeful for
the future; such a man, in short, as mine host of the Golden Crown,
whose portrait I have endeavored to present.
[Illustration: MODEL LANDLORD.]
If there be any likeness between myself and the son, it certainly does
not extend to the father. He carries in his hands a steaming hot
plum-pudding; he is a model landlord, and delights in feeding his
customers. His voice is greasy like his face. When he laughs it is
from his capacious stomach the sounds come. His best jokes are based
upon his digestive organs. He gets a little boozy toward evening, but
that is merely a hospitable habit of his to prove that his liquors are
good. You commit yourself at once to his keeping with a delightful
consciousness that in his hands you are safe. He is not a man to
suffer an honest customer to starve. Nature, in her prodigality,
formed him upon a generous pattern. Whatever does other people good
likewise does him good. May he live a thousand years--mine host of the
Golden Crown!--and may his shadow never be less!
CHAPTER XXXIV.
DOWN THE DRIVSDAL.
The next morning I proceeded on my way, resolved, if ever I came this
route again, to spend a week at Djerkin. A withered old man
accompanied me on the back of the cariole. After half an hour's hard
climbing up a very steep hill we reached the highest point of the
Dovre Fjeld, 4594 feet above the level of the sea. From this point the
view is exceedingly weird and desolate. Owing to the weather, however,
which was dark and threatening, I did not stop long to enjoy the view
of the barren wastes that lay behind, but was soon dashing at a
slapping pace down into the valley of the Drivsdal--one of the most
rugged and picturesque in Norway.
[Illustration: DRIVSDAL VALLEY.]
My journey down the valley of the Drivsdal was both pleasant and
interesting. A beautiful new road commences at Kongsvold, the last
station on the Dovre Fjeld, after passing Djerkin, and follows the
winding of the river through the narrow gorges of the mountains all
the way to Ny Orne. On each side towering and pine-covered mountains
rear their rugged crests, sometimes approaching so close to the river
as to overhang the road, which for miles on a stretch is hewn from the
solid rock.
The innumerable clefts and fissures that mark the rugged fronts of the
cliffs; the overhanging trees and shrubbery; the toppling boulders of
granite, balanced in mid-air; the rushing torrents that dash from the
moss-covered rocks; the seething and foaming waters of the Driv,
whirling through the narrow gorges hundreds of feet below the road;
the bright blue sky overhead, and the fitful gleams of sunshine
darting through the masses of pine and circling into innumerable
rainbows in the spray of the river, all combine to form a scene of
incomparable beauty and grandeur such as I have rarely seen equaled in
any part of the world, and only surpassed by the Siskiyon Mountains in
the northern part of California.
About midway down the valley, after passing the settlement of Rise, I
stopped to examine a curious passage of the river in the neighborhood
of the Drivstuklere, where it dashes down between two solid walls of
rocks, which at this point approach so as to form a passage of not
more than fifteen feet in width. Securing my cariole horse to a tree
by the side of the road, I descended a steep bank under the guidance
of my skydskaarl, a bright little fellow about ten years of age, who
first called my attention to this remarkable phenomenon. I was soon
compelled to follow his example, and crawl over the rocks like a
caterpillar to avoid falling into the frightful abyss below. For a
distance of fifty or sixty yards, the river, compressed within a limit
of fifteen feet, dashes with fearful velocity through its rugged and
tortuous boundaries, filling the air with spray, and making an angry
moan, as if threatening momentarily to tear the rocks from their solid
beds, and sweep them, into the broad and sullen pool below.
The trembling of the massive boulder upon which I lay outstretched
peering into the raging abyss, the fierce surging of the waters, the
whirling clouds of spray, and gorgeous prismatic colors that flashed
through them, created an impression that the whole was some wild, mad
freak of the elements, gotten up to furnish the traveler with a
startling idea of the wonders and beauties of Norwegian scenery.
[Illustration: PASSAGE ON THE DRIV.]
CHAPTER XXXV.
A NORWEGIAN HORSE-JOCKEY.
Late one evening I arrived at a lonely little station by the wayside,
not far beyond the valley of the Drivsdal. I was cold and hungry, and
well disposed to enjoy whatever good cheer the honest people who kept
the inn might have in store for me. The house and outbuildings were
such as belong to an ordinary farming establishment, and did not
promise much in the way of entertainment. Upon entering the rustic
doorway I was kindly greeted by the host--a simple, good-natured
looking man--who, as usual, showed me into the best room. Now I am not
aware of any thing in my appearance that entitles me to this
distinction, but it has generally been my fate, in this sort of
travel, to be set apart and isolated from the common herd in the fancy
room of the establishment, which I have always found to be
correspondingly the coldest and most uncomfortable. It is a great
annoyance in Norway to be treated as a gentleman. The commonest lout
can enjoy the cozy glow and social gossip of the kitchen or ordinary
sitting-room, but the traveler whom these good people would honor must
sit shivering and alone in some great barn of a room because it
contains a sofa, a bureau, a looking-glass, a few mantle-piece
ornaments, and an occasional picture of the king or some member of the
royal family. I have walked up and down these dismal chambers for
hours at a time, staring at the daubs on the walls, and picking up
little odds and ends of ornaments, and gazing vacantly at them, till I
felt a numbness steal all over me, accompanied by a vague presentiment
that I was imprisoned for life. The progress of time is a matter of no
importance in Norway. To an American, accustomed to see every thing
done with energy and promptness, it is absolutely astounding--the
indifference of these people to the waste of hours. They seem to be
forever asleep, or doing something that bears no possible reference to
their ostensible business. If you are hungry and want something to eat
in a few minutes, the probability is you will be left alone in the
fine room for several hours, at the expiration of which you discover
that the inn-keeper is out in the stable feeding his horses, his wife
in the back yard looking after the chickens, and his children sitting
at a table in the kitchen devouring a dish of porridge. Upon
expressing your astonishment that nothing is ready, the good man of
the house says "Ja! it will be ready directly, min Herr!" and if you
are lucky it comes in another hour--a cup of coffee and some bread
perhaps, which you could just as well have had in ten minutes.
Patience may be a virtue in other countries, but it is an absolute
necessity in Norway. I believe, after the few weeks' experience I had
on the road to Trondhjem, I could without difficulty sit upon a
monument and smile at grief.
[Illustration: THE PRIZE.]
Perceiving through the cracks of the door that there was a good fire
in the kitchen, and hearing the cheerful voices of the man and his
wife, varied by the merry whistle my skydskaarl, I made bold to go in
and ask leave to stand by the fire. The good people seemed a little
astonished at first that a person of quality like myself should prefer
the kitchen to the fine room with the sofa and bureau, the
mantle-piece ornaments and pictures of the royal family; but, by dint
of good-humored gossip about the horses, and an extravagant compliment
thrown in about the beauty of the landlady's children--for which I
hope to be pardoned--I secured a comfortable seat by the fire, and was
soon quite at home. The great open fireplace, the blazing pine logs,
the well-smoked hobs, the simmering pots and steaming kettles, had
something indescribably cheerful about them; and lighting my pipe, I
puffed away cozily during the pauses in the conversation, having a
delightful consciousness that nature had peculiarly adapted me for the
vulgar enjoyments of life, and that every thing approaching the
refinements of civilization was a great bore. It was doubtless this
taint of the savage in my disposition that made me look with such
horror upon neat rooms and civilized furniture, and fall back with
such zest upon the primitive comforts of savage life. When I told the
people of the house that I was all the way from California--that I had
come expressly to see their country--there was no end to the interest
and excitement. "Dear me!" they cried, "and you have traveled a long
way! You must be very tired! And you must be very rich to travel so
far! Ah Gott--how wonderful!" "Did you come all the way in a cariole?"
inquired the simple-minded host. "No; I came part of the way by sea,
in a great ship." "How wonderful!" "And what sort of horses had they
in California?" I told some tough stories about the mustang horses, in
which the landlord was profoundly interested, for I soon discovered
that horses were his great hobby. Whatever we talked of, he invariably
came back to horse-flesh. His head was overrunning with horses. I
praised his cariole horses, and he was enchanted. He gave me the
pedigree of every horse in his stable, scarcely a word of which I
understood, and then wound up by telling me he was considered the best
judge of horses in all Norway. I did not think there was much in his
appearance indicative of the shrewd horse-jockey, but was soon
convinced of his shrewdness, for he informed me confidentially he had
drawn the great prize at the last annual horse-fair at Christiania,
and if I didn't believe it he would show it to me! I tried to make him
understand that I had no doubt at all what he said was strictly true;
but, not satisfied at this expression of faith in his word, he went to
a big wooden chest in the corner and took out a bag of money, which he
placed upon the middle of the table with a proud smile of triumph.
"That," said he, "is the prize! A hundred and fifty silver
dollars--_silver_, mind you--all SILVER!" But perhaps I didn't
believe it was a prize? Well, he would convince me of that. So he left
the bag of money on the table and went into a back room to get the
certificate of the society, in which it was all duly written out, with
his name in large letters, the paper being neatly framed in a carved
frame, the work of his own hands. There it was; I could read for
myself! I tried to read it to oblige him, and as I blundered over the
words he took it into his head that I was still incredulous. "Nai!
nai!" said he, "you shall see the money! You shall count it for
yourself!" In vain I strove to convince him that I was entirely
satisfied on the subject--that he must not go to so much trouble on my
account. "Nai! nai!" cried the enthusiastic dealer in horse-flesh, "it
is no trouble. You shall see the money WITH YOUR OWN EYES!" And
forthwith he untied the string of the bag, and poured out the shining
dollars in a pile on the middle of the table. His good wife stood by,
professing to smile, but I suspected, from the watchful expression of
her eye, that she did not feel quite at ease. The skydskaarl leaned
over with a general expression of the most profound astonishment and
admiration. "See!" cried the old man; "this is the prize--every dollar
of it. But you must count it--I'll help you--so!" As there was no
getting over the task imposed upon me without hurting his feelings, I
had to sit down and help to count the money--no very pleasant job for
a hungry man. After summing up our respective piles, there appeared to
be only a hundred and forty-nine dollars--just a dollar short. "Lieb
Gott!" cried the man, "there must be a mistake! Let us count it
again!" I felt that there was a necessity for counting it very
carefully this time, for the landlady's eye was on me with a very
searching expression. "Een, to, tre, five, fem, sex," and so on for
nearly half an hour, when we summed up our counts again. This time it
was only a hundred and forty-eight dollars--just two dollars short!
The old man scratched his head and looked bewildered. The landlady
moved about nervously, and stared very hard at me. It was getting to
be rather an embarrassing affair. I blamed myself for being so
foolishly drawn into it. Wishing to know if there really was a
mistake, I begged my host to let me count it alone, which I did by
making fifteen piles of ten dollars each, carefully counting every
pile. It was all right; the whole amount was there, a hundred and
fifty dollars. "All right!" said I, much relieved; "don't you see,
every pile is exactly the same height!" "Ja! Ja!" said the man; "but I
don't understand it. Here, wife, you and I must count it!" So the wife
sat down, and they both began counting the money, varying every time
they compared notes from two to ten dollars. Once they had it a
hundred and sixty dollars. "The devil is in the money!" exclaimed the
horse-dealer; "I'm certain I counted right." "And so am I!" said the
woman; "I can not be mistaken. It is you who have made the mistake.
You always were a stupid old fool about money!" This she said with
some degree of asperity, for she was evidently displeased at the whole
proceeding. "A fool, eh? A fool!" muttered the old man; "you do well
to call me a fool before strangers!" "Ja, that's the way! I always
told you so!" screamed the woman, in rising tones of anger; "you'll
lose all your money yet!" "Lose it!" retorted the man; "don't you see
I have made ten dollars by counting it to-night! There! count it
yourself, and hold your peace, woman!" Here the wife, suppressing her
wrath, made a careful and deliberate count, which resulted in the
exact sum of a hundred and fifty dollars! I was much relieved; but by
this time the old man, unable to bear the torrent of reproaches heaped
upon him by his good wife for his stupidity, swore she must have made
a mistake. He was sure he had counted a hundred and sixty; therefore
he would count it again, all alone, which he proceeded to do, very
slowly and cautiously. This time the result was a hundred and
fifty-five dollars. "The devil's in it!" cried the astonished dealer;
"there's some magic about it! I don't understand it. I must count it
again!" The woman, however, being satisfied that it was all right, I
now thought it best to return to my seat by the fire, where she soon
began to busy herself preparing the supper, turning round now and then
of course to let off a broadside at her old man. She took occasion to
inform me, during the progress of her culinary labors, that he was a
very good sort of man, but was somewhat addicted to brandy-wine, of
which he had partaken a little too freely on the present occasion. I
must excuse him. She would send him to bed presently. And now, if I
pleased, supper was ready.
I could not help thinking, as I lay in bed that night, how lucky it
was for these simple-minded people that they lived in the interior of
Norway. Even in California, where public and private integrity is the
prevailing trait of the people, it would hardly be considered safe to
pull out a bag of money at a wayside inn and show it to every passing
stranger. I have known men there in high public positions whom I would
scarcely like to tempt in that way, especially if there was money
enough in the bag to make robbery respectable.
All along the route during the next day the scenery was a continued
feast of enjoyment. In looking back over it now, however, after the
lapse of several months, it would be difficult to recall any thing
beyond its general features--pine-covered mountains, green valleys,
dark rocky glens, foaming torrents of water, and groups of farm-houses
by the wayside. At Bjerkager I reached the first of the
"slow-stations;" that is to say, the established post-houses, where a
margin of three hours is allowed for a change of horses. I had
supposed that in a country, and on a public route, where during the
summer there must be considerable travel, it would hardly be possible
that so long a delay could take place; but in this I was mistaken. The
slow-stations are emphatically slow; the keepers are slow, the horses
are slow, the whole concern is slow. From Bjerkager to Garlid, and
from Garlid to Hov, including all delays, a distance of three hours
and a half ordinary time, it took me all day. No entreaties, no offers
of extra compensation, no expressions of impatience produced the
slightest effect. The people at these places were not to be hurried.
Kind and good-natured as they were in appearance and expression, I
found them the most bull-headed and intractable race of beings on the
face of the earth.
I was particularly struck with the depressing lethargy that hung over
a wretched little place called Soknaes, which I made out to reach the
next morning. A dead silence reigned over the miserable huddle of
buildings by the roadside. The houses looked green and mildewed. A few
forlorn chickens in the stable-yard, and a half-starved dog crouching
under the door-steps, too poor to bark and too lazy to move, were the
only signs of life that greeted me as I approached. I knocked at the
door, but no answer was made to the summons. Not a living soul was to
be seen around the place. I attempted to whistle and shout. Still the
terrible silence remained unbroken save by the dismal echoes of my own
melancholy music. At length I went to a rickety shed under which some
carts were drawn up for shelter from the weather. In one of the carts,
half-covered in a bundle of straw, was a bundle of clothes. It moved
as I drew near; it thrust a boot out over the tail-board; it shook
itself; it emitted a curious sound between a grunt and a yawn; it
raised itself up and shook off a portion of the straw; it thrust a red
night-cap out of the mass of shapeless rubbish; the night-cap
contained a head and a matted shock of hair; there was a withered,
old-fashioned little face on the front part of the head, underneath
the shock of hair, which opened its mouth and eyes, and gazed at me
vacantly; it was an old man or a boy, I could not tell which till it
spoke, when I discovered that it was something between the two, and
was the skydskaarl or hostler of this remarkable establishment. He
rubbed his eyes and stared again. "Hello!" said I. He grunted out
something. "Heste og Cariole!" said I. "Ja! Ja!" grunted the hostler,
and then he began to get out of the cart. I suppose he creaked, though
I do not pretend that the sounds were audible. First one leg came out;
slowly it was followed by the other. When they both got to the ground,
he pushed his body gradually over the tail-board, and in about five
minutes was standing before me.
"A horse and cariole," said I; "let me have them quick!"
"Ja! Ja!"
"_Strax!_" [directly!] said I.
"Ja! Ja!"
"How long will it be?"
"Ach!"--here he yawned.
"An hour?"
"Ja! Ja!"
"Two hours?"
"Ja! Ja!"
"Three hours?"
"Ja! Ja!"
"Sacramento! I can't stand that, I must have one
STRAX--directly--forstöede?"
"Ja! Ja!" and the fellow rubbed his eyes and yawned again.
"Look here! my friend," said I, "if you'll get me a horse and cariole
in half an hour, I'll give you two marks extra--forstöe?"
"Ja! Ja! twa mark" (still yawning).
"Half an hour, mind you!"
"_Tre time_--three hours!" grunted the incorrigible dunderhead.
"Then good-by--I must travel on foot!" and, with rage and indignation
depicted in every feature, I flung my knapsack over my shoulder and
made a feint to start.
"Adieu! farvel!" said the sleepy lout, good-naturedly holding out his
hand to give me a parting shake. "Farvel, min Herr! May your journey
be pleasant! God take care of you!"
The perfect sincerity of the fellow completely dissipated my rage,
and, giving him a friendly shake, I proceeded on my way. As I turned
the corner of the main building and struck into the road, I cast a
look back. He was still standing by the cart, yawning and rubbing his
eyes as before. That man would make money in California--if money
could be made by a bet on laziness. He is lazier than the old Dutch
skipper who was too lazy to go below, and gave orders to the man at
the helm to follow the sun so as to keep him in the shade of the
main-sail, by reason of which he sailed round the horizon till his
tobacco gave out, and he had to return home for a fresh supply. I call
that a strong case of laziness, but scarcely stronger than the
traveler meets with every day in Norway.
CHAPTER XXXVI.
OUT OF MONEY.
I now began to enjoy the real pleasures of Norwegian travel. No longer
compelled to endure the vexatious delays to which I had lately been
subject, I bowled along the road, with my knapsack on my back, at the
rate of four miles an hour, whistling merrily from sheer exuberance of
health and lack of thought. The weather was charming. A bright sun
shed its warm rays over hill and dale; the air was fresh and
invigorating; the richest tints adorned the whole face of the country,
which from Soknaes to Trondhjem gradually increases in fertility and
breadth of outline, till it becomes almost unrivaled in the profusion
of its pastoral beauties. Nothing can surpass the gorgeous splendor of
the autumnal sunsets in this part of Norway. At an earlier period of
the year there is perpetual daylight for several weeks, and for three
days the sun does not descend below the horizon. The light, however,
is too strong during that period to produce the rich and glowing tints
which cover the sky and mountain-tops at a later season of the year. I
was fortunate in being just in time to enjoy the full measure of its
beauties, and surely it is not too much to say that such an experience
is of itself worth a trip to Norway. I shall not attempt a description
of Norwegian skies, however, after the glowing picture of the North
Cape at midnight drawn by the pen of my friend Bayard Taylor, the most
faithful and enthusiastic of all the travelers who have given their
experience of this interesting region.
[Illustration: 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.
CHAPTER XXXVII.
ICELANDIC TRAVEL.
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.
[Illustration: 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 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.
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN.
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
curiosity obtained 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 the _Fox_,
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 from our 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"--
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 of these 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 vine
Lays forth her grape and gently creeps
Luxuriant,"
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
I heard 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 for Congress, 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 almost took 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.
[Illustration: [Signature: HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN]]
"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
little friends 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! Thank you! 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!"
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.
[Illustration]
"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 chuckled gleefully 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 steamer _Arcturus_ was 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 change of 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.
CHAPTER XXXIX.
VOYAGE TO SCOTLAND.
The _Arcturus_ is 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 the _Arcturus_. 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
be an 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 threatening for 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
days we 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 ship _Pacific_. 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."
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, and three 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.
The _Arcturus_ was 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 commonplace compared 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.
CHAPTER XL.
THE JOLLY BLOODS.
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 a _do_! 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 tempting field 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.
[Illustration: A DANDY TOURIST.]
[Illustration: THORSHAVN.]
CHAPTER XLI.
THE FAROE ISLANDS.
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.
[Illustration: VIEW IN FAROE ISLANDS.]
At certain seasons of the year the intrepid bird-hunters suspend
themselves from the cliffs by means of ropes, and feather their own
nests by robbing the nests of their neighbors. Enormous quantities of
eggs are taken in this way. The eider-down, of which the nests of the
eider-duck are composed, is one of the most profitable articles of
Faroese traffic. The mode of life to which these men devote
themselves, and their habitual contact with dangers, render them
reckless, and many perish every year by falling from the rocks. Widows
and orphans are numerous throughout the islands.
The few scattering farms to be seen on the slopes of the hills and in
the arable valleys are conducted on the most primitive principles. A
small patch of potatoes and vegetables, and in certain exposures a few
acres of grain, comprise the extent of their agricultural operations.
Sheep-raising is the most profitable of their pursuits. The climate
appears to be more congenial to the growth of wool than of cereal
productions. The Faroese sheep are noted for the fineness and
luxuriance of their fleece, and it always commands a high price in
market. A considerable portion of it is manufactured by the
inhabitants, who are quite skillful in weaving and knitting. They make
a kind of thick woolen shirt, something like that known as the
Guernsey, which for durability and warmth is unsurpassed. Sailors and
fishermen all over the Northern seas consider themselves fortunate if
they can get possession of a Faroese shirt. The costume of the men,
which is chiefly home-made, consists of a rough, thick jacket of brown
wool; a coarse woolen shirt; a knitted bag-shaped cap on the head; a
pair of knee-breeches of the same material as the coat; a pair of
thick woolen stockings, and sheepskin shoes, generally covered with
mud--all of the same brown or rather burnt-umber color. Exposure to
the weather gives their skins, naturally of a leathery texture,
something of the same dull and dingy aspect, so that a genuine
Faroese enjoys one advantage--he can never look much more dirty at one
time than another.
The women wear dresses of the same material, without much attempt at
shape or ornament. A colored handkerchief tied around the head, a
silver breast-pin, and a pair of ear-rings of domestic manufacture,
comprise their only personal decorations. As in all countries where
the burden of heavy labor is thrown upon the women, they lose their
comely looks at an early age, and become withered, ill-shaped, and
hard-featured long before they reach the prime of life. The Faroese
women doubtless make excellent wives for lazy men; they do all the
labors of the house, and share largely in those of the field. I do not
know that they are more prolific than good and loving wives in other
parts of the world, but they certainty enjoy the possession of as many
little cotton-heads with dirty faces, turned up noses, ragged elbows,
and tattered frocks, as one usually meets in the course of his
travels. Two fair specimens of the rising generation, a little boy and
girl, made an excellent speculation on the occasion of my visit to
Thorshavn. Knowing by instinct, if not by my dress, that I was a
stranger, they followed me about wherever I rambled, looking curiously
and cautiously into my face, and mutually commenting upon the oddity
of my appearance--which, by-the-way, would have been slightly odd even
in the streets of New York, wrapped, as I was, in the voluminous folds
of Captain Södring's old whaling coat, with a sketch-book in my hand
and a pair of spectacles on my nose. However, no man likes to be
regarded as an object of curiosity even by two small ragamuffins
belonging to a strange race, so I just held up suddenly, and requested
these children of Faroe to state explicitly the grounds of their
interest in my behalf. What they said in reply it would be impossible
for me to translate, since the Faroese language is quite as
impenetrable as the Icelandic. They looked so startled and alarmed
withal that a gleam of pity must have manifested its appearance in
the corner of my eyes. The next moment their faces broke into a broad
grin, and each held out a hand audaciously, as much as to say, "My
dear sir, if you'll put a small copper in this small hand, we'll
retract all injurious criticisms, and ever after regard you as a
gentleman of extraordinary personal beauty!" Somehow my hand slipped
unconsciously into my pocket, but, before handing them the desired
change, it occurred to me to secure their likenesses for publication
as a warning to the children of all nations not to undertake a similar
experiment with any hope of success.
[Illustration: FAROESE CHILDREN.]
Thorshavn, so named after the old god Thor, is a small town of some
five or six hundred inhabitants, situated on the southeastern side of
the island of Stromoe. In front lies a harbor, indifferently protected
by a small island and two rocky points. The anchorage is insecure at
all times, especially during the prevalence of southerly and easterly
gales, when it often becomes necessary to heave up and put to sea; and
the dense fogs by which the approach to land is generally obscured
render navigation about these islands extremely perilous. Of the town
of Thorshavn little need be said. Its chief interest lies in the
almost primeval construction of the houses and the rustic simplicity
of its inhabitants. The few streets that run between the straggling
lines of sheds and sod-covered huts scattered over the rocks are
narrow and tortuous, winding up steep, stony precipices, and into
deep, boggy hollows; around rugged points, and over scraggy mounds of
gravel and grit. The public edifices, consisting of two or three small
churches and the amtman's residence, are little better than
martin-boxes. For some reason best known to the people in these
Northern climes, they paint their houses black, except where the roofs
are covered with sod, which nature paints green. I think it must be
from some notion that it gives them a cheerful aspect, though the
darkness of the paint and the chilly luxuriance of the green did not
strike me with joyous impressions. If Scotland can claim some
advantages as a place of residence for snails, Thorshavn must surely
be a paradise for toads accustomed to feed upon the vapors of a
dungeon. The wharves--loose masses of rock at the boat-landing--are
singularly luxuriant in the article of fish. Prodigious piles of
fish lie about in every direction. The shambling old store-houses are
crammed with fish, and the heads of fish and the back-bones of fish
lie bleaching on the rocks. The gravelly patches of beach are slimy
with the entrails of fresh fish, and the air is foul with the odor of
decayed fish. The boatmen that lounge about waiting for a job are
saturated with fish inside and out--like their boats. The cats, crows,
and ravens mingle in social harmony over the dreadful carnival of
fish. In fine, the impression produced upon the stranger who lands for
the first time is that he has accidentally turned up in some
piscatorial hell, where the tortures of skinning, drying, and
disemboweling are performed by the unrelenting hands of man.
[Illustration: FAROESE ISLANDERS.]
In addition to the standing population of Thorshavn, the
fortifications--an abandoned mud-bank, a flag-staff, and a board
shanty--are subject, in times of great public peril, to be defended by
a standing army and navy of twenty-four soldiers, one small boat, one
corporal, and the governor of the islands, who takes the field himself
at the head of this bloody phalanx of Danes still reeking with the
gore of slaughtered fish. Upon the occasion of the arrival of the
_Arcturus_--the only steamer that ever touches here--the principal
amtman, upon perceiving the vessel in the distance, immediately
proceeds to organize the army and navy for a grand display. First he
shaves and puts on his uniform; then calling together the troops, who
are also sailors, he carefully inspects them, and selecting from the
number the darkest, dirtiest, and most bloody-looking, he causes them
to buckle on their swords. This done, he delivers a brief address,
recommending them to abstain from the use of schnapps and other
intoxicating beverages till the departure of the steamer. The dignity
of official position requires that he should remain on shore for the
space of one hour after the dropping of the anchor. He then musters
his forces, marches them down to his war-skiff, from the stern of
which waves the Danish flag, and, placing an oar in the hands of each
man, he gives the order to advance and board the steamer. On his
arrival alongside he touches his cap to the passengers in a grave and
dignified manner, and expresses a desire to see our commander, Captain
Andersen, who, during this period of the ceremony, is down below,
busily occupied in arranging the brandy and crackers. The appearance
of Captain Andersen on deck is politely acknowledged by the amtman,
who thereupon orders his men to pull alongside, when the two
cabin-boys and the cook kindly assist him over the gangway. Descending
into the cabin, he carefully examines the ship's papers, pronounces
them all right, and joins Captain Andersen in a social "smile." Then,
having delivered himself of the latest intelligence on the subject of
wool and codfish, he returns to his boat and proceeds to his quarters
on shore. All this is done with a quiet and dignified formality both
pleasing and impressive.
As an illustration of the severity of the laws that govern the Faroe
Islands, and the upright and inexorable character of the governor and
principal amtman, I must relate an incident that occurred under my own
observation.
Shortly after the _Arcturus_ had cast anchor, the party of British
sportsmen already mentioned went ashore with their dogs and guns, and
began an indiscriminate slaughter of all the game within two miles of
Thorshavn, consisting of three plovers, a snipe, and some half a dozen
sparrows. The captain had warned them that such a proceeding was
contrary to law, and a citizen of Thorshavn had gently remonstrated
with them as they passed through the town. When the slaughter
commenced, the proprietors of the bog, in which the game abounded,
rushed to the doors of their cabins to see what was going on, and
perceiving that it was a party of Englishmen engaged in the
destructive pastime of firing shotguns about and among the flocks of
sheep that browsed on the premises, they straightway laid a complaint
before the governor. The independent sons of Britain were not to be
baffled of their sport in this manner. They cracked away as long as
they pleased, by-Joved and blawsted the island for not having more
game, and then came aboard. The steamer hove up anchor and sailed that
night. Nothing farther took place to admonish us of the consequences
of the trespass till our return from Iceland, when the principal
amtman came on board with a formidable placard, neatly written, and
translated into the three court languages of the place--Danish,
French, and English. The contents of this document were as follows:
that whereas, in the year 1763, a law had been passed for the
protection of game on the Faroe Islands, which law had not since been
rescinded; and whereas a subsequent law of 1786 had been passed for
the protection of sheep and other stock ranging at large on the said
islands, which law had not since been rescinded; and whereas it had
been represented to the governor of the said islands that certain
persons, supposed to be Englishmen, had lately come on shore, armed
with shotguns, and, in violation of the said laws of the country, had
shot at, maimed, and killed several birds, and caused serious
apprehensions of injury to the flocks of sheep which were peaceably
grazing on their respective ranges; now, therefore, this was earnestly
to request that all such persons would reflect upon the penalties that
would attach to similar acts in their own country, and be thus enabled
to perceive the impropriety of pursuing such a course in other
countries. Should they fail to observe the aforesaid laws after this
warning, they would only have themselves to blame for the unpleasant
consequences that must assuredly ensue, etc., etc. [Officially signed
and sealed.]
Great formality was observed in carrying this important document on
board. It was neatly folded and carefully done up, with various seals
and blue ribbons, in a package about six inches wide by eighteen in
length, and was guarded by the select half of the Faroese army and
navy, being exactly twelve men, and delivered by the amtman of the
island with a few appropriate and impressive remarks, after which it
was hung up over the cabin gangway by the captain as a solemn warning
to all future passengers. There can be no doubt that it produced the
most salutary effects upon the sporting gentlemen. I was really glad
the affair had taken place, as it evidently afforded his excellency a
favorable opportunity of promulgating a most excellent state paper,
cautiously conceived and judiciously worded. The preparation of it
must have occupied his time advantageously to himself and his country
during the entire period of our absence.
I must now turn back a little to say that, while my comrades were
engaged in their unlawful work of killing the sparrows and frightening
the sheep, I deemed it a matter of personal safety to keep out of
range of their guns. Apart from the danger of arrest, the probable
loss of an eye or disfigurement of some ornamental feature was a
sufficient consideration to satisfy me of the policy of this course.
Taking a path across the rugged desert of rocks and bogs, extending
for some miles back of Thorshavn, I quickly began to ascend a barren
range of hills, abounding in greenstone trap-rock and zoolites, from
the summit of which there is a magnificent view of the whole
surrounding country, with glimpses of the cloud-capped summits of the
neighboring islands. Beautiful little valleys, dotted with the
sod-covered huts of the shepherds and fishermen, sweep down to the
water's edge a thousand feet below; weird black bogs, and fields of
scoria and burned earth, lie on the slopes of the distant hills to the
right; and to the left are rugged cliffs, jutting out of the sea like
huge castles, around which myriads of birds continually hover,
piercing the air with their wild screams. The wind blew in such fierce
gusts over the bleak and desolate range of crags on which I stood that
I was glad enough to seek shelter down on the leeside.
It now occurred to me to go in search of a ruined church of which I
had read in some traveler's journal said to be within four or five
miles of Thorshavn. Some artificial piles of stones, near the ledge
upon which I had descended, indicated the existence of a trail. On my
way down, a legion of birds, about the size of puffins, began to
gather around, with fierce cries and warning motions, as if determined
to dispute my progress. They flew backward and forward within a few
feet of my head, flapping their wings furiously, and uttering the most
terrific cries of rage and alarm, so that I was sorely puzzled to know
what was the matter. It was not long before I came upon some of their
nests, which of course explained the difficulty. Having no immediate
use for eggs or feathers, I left the nests unmolested and proceeded on
my way. In about an hour I came suddenly upon a small green valley
that lay some five hundred feet below, directly on the water's edge.
By some mischance I had lost the trail, and, in order to descend, was
obliged to slide and scramble down the cliffs--an experiment that I
presently discovered would probably cost me a broken neck if persisted
in; for when there seemed to be no farther obstruction, I came all at
once upon a precipice at least sixty feet deep, without a single
foothold or other means of descent than a clear jump to the bottom.
Not disposed to follow the example of Sam Patch on dry land, I
reluctantly turned back. By dint of scrambling and climbing, and
slipping down various cliffs and slopes, I at length reached a point
from which I had a view of some ruins and farm-houses still some
distance below. Following the line of the regular trail till it struck
into the cliffs, I had no farther difficulty in reaching the valley.
The good people at the farm-house--a family by the name of
Petersen--received me in the kindest manner, with many expressions of
wonder at the risk I had run in crossing the mountain without a guide.
It was with considerable difficulty we made ourselves understood. None
of the family spoke any language except their own. The son, indeed, a
fine young man of twenty, understood a few words of English, but that
was all. There is something, nevertheless, in genuine kindness and
hospitality that makes itself intelligible without the aid of language.
I was immediately invited into the house, and while young Petersen
entertained me with old prints and Faroese books, his mother prepared
an excellent lunch. Tired and worried after my trip, I could offer no
objection. Never shall I forget the coffee and cream, and the butter
and bread, and delicate fruit-tarts placed on the nice white
table-cloth by the good Mrs. Petersen. I ate and drank, and glowed all
over with a childlike relish of the good things, while the whole family
gathered round and tried to make me understand that they had a relative
in California, who lived in the mines at a place called Six-mile-bar,
and that they were glad to see a Californian, and wanted to know all
about California. It is wonderful with how few words we can communicate
our ideas when necessity compels us to depend upon our ingenuity.
Before I had parted from that family the whole matter was perfectly
explained; the history of their absent relative was quite clear to me,
and they had a very fair conception of the kind of country in which he
lived. Upon no consideration would they receive compensation for the
lunch, and they even seemed offended when I endeavored to press it upon
them. This, from people whom I had never seen before--a plain country
family living in a wilderness where such luxuries as sugar and coffee
could only be had at considerable expense--was absolutely refreshing.
For the first time since my arrival in Europe, after having traversed
the whole Continent, I had encountered a specimen of the human race
capable of refusing money. Subsequently I learned that this was the
common practice in the Faroe Islands. The poorest shepherd freely
offers to the stranger the hospitality of his hut; and it is a creed
among these worthy people not to accept pay for coffee and bread, or
indeed any thing else they may have to offer in the way of
entertainment. My fellow-passengers were similarly treated in
Thorshavn, where visitors are more frequent and the customs of the
country less primitive.
[Illustration: KIRK GÖBOE.]
The great object of interest at Kirk Göboe is the ancient church, from
which the place derives its name; a long, low stone building,
whitewashed and covered with a sod roof, but, owing to repeated
repairs, now presenting no particular traces of antiquity, although
reported to have been built in the eighth century. I have no data in
reference to this interesting relic, and am not aware that
antiquarians have ever attempted to trace out its origin. The
probability is that it was built by some of those Culdee anchorites of
whom Dasent speaks as the first settlers of Iceland.
The interior of the church contains an altar, and some wooden carvings
on the head-boards of the pews, evidently of great antiquity. It is
impossible to conjecture from their appearance whether they are five
hundred or a thousand years old--at least without more research than a
casual tourist can bestow upon them.
There is also within a few steps of the farm-house a much larger and
more picturesque ruin of a church, built in a later style of
architecture. The only information I could get about this ruin was
that it dates back as far as the fifteenth century. The walls are of
rough stone well put together, and now stand roofless and
moss-covered, inhabited only by crows and swallows. The doors and
windows are in the Gothic style. A sketch made from the door of the
old church first mentioned, embracing the residence of the Petersen
family, with a glimpse of the cliffs and rugged ledges behind upon
which their flocks graze, will give the best idea of the whole
premises.
[Illustration: FARM-HOUSE AND RUINS.]
Having thus pleasantly occupied a few hours at Kirk Göboe, I bade
adieu to the worthy family who had so hospitably entertained me, and
was about to set out for Thorshavn, when young Petersen, not content
with the directions he had given me, announced his intention of seeing
me safe over the mountain. In vain I assured him that, however
pleasant his company would be, I had no apprehension of losing the way
this time. Go he would, and go he did; and when we parted on the top
of the mountain, in plain sight of Thorshavn, he cordially shook me by
the hand, and said many kind words, which I could only interpret to
mean that he and all his kith and kin wished me a pleasant voyage to
Iceland, and many years of health and happiness.
When I now recall the fine, intelligent face of this young man, his
bright dark eyes, healthy complexion, and strong, well-knit frame, the
latent energy in all his movements, the genial simplicity of his
manners, and his evident thirst for knowledge, I can not help feeling
something akin to regret that so much good material should be wasted
in the obscurity of a shepherd's life. So gifted by nature, what might
not such a youth achieve in an appropriate sphere of action? And yet,
perhaps, it is better for him that he should spend his life among the
barren cliffs of Stromoe, with no more companions than his dog and his
sheep, than jostle among men in the great outer world, to learn at
last the bitter lesson that the eye is not satisfied with riches, nor
the understanding with knowledge.
On the way down to the Valley of Thorshavn I met a man mounted on a
shaggy little monster, which in almost any other country would have
been mistaken for a species of sheep. As this was a fair specimen of a
Faroese horse and his rider, I sat down on a rock after they had
passed and took the best view of them I could get.
Late in the afternoon the scattered passengers were gathered together,
and the good people of Thorshavn came down to the wharf to bid us
farewell. In half an hour more we were all on board. "Up anchor!" was
the order, and once more we went steaming on our way.
Short as our sojourn had been among these primitive people, it
furnished us with many pleasant reminiscences. Their genial
hospitality and simple good-nature, together with their utter
ignorance of the outer world, formed the theme of various amusing
anecdotes during the remainder of the passage. Favored by a southerly
wind and a stock of good coal, we made the southeastern point of
Iceland in a little over two days from Thorshavn.
[Illustration: FAROESE ON HORSEBACK.]
CHAPTER XLII.
FIRST IMPRESSIONS OF ICELAND.
It would be difficult to conceive any thing more impressive than this
first view of the land of snow and fire. A low stretch of black boggy
coast to the right; dark cliffs of lava in front; far in the
background, range after range of bleak, snow-capped mountains, the
fiery Jokuls dimly visible through drifting masses of fog; to the left
a broken wall of red, black, and blue rocks, weird and surf-beaten,
stretching as far as the eye could reach--this was Iceland! All along
the grim rifted coast the dread marks of fire, and flood, and
desolation were visible. Detached masses of lava, gnarled and scraggy
like huge clinkers, seemed tossed out into the sea; towers,
buttresses, and battlements, shaped by the very elements of
destruction, reared their stern crests against the waves; glaciers lay
glittering upon the blackened slopes behind; and foaming torrents of
snow-water burst through the rifted crags in front, and mingled their
rage with the wild rage of the surf--all was battle, and ruin, and
desolation.
As we approached the point called Portland, a colossal bridge opened
into view, so symmetrical in its outline that it was difficult to
believe it was not of artificial construction. The arch is about fifty
feet high by thirty in width, and affords shelter to innumerable
flocks of birds, whose nests are built in the crevices underneath.
Solan-geese, eider-ducks, and sea-gulls cover the dizzy heights
overhead, and whales have been known to pass through the passage
below. Great numbers of blackfish and porpoises abound in this
vicinity. From time to time, as we swept along on our way, we could
discern a lonesome hut high up on the shore, with a few sheep and
cattle on the slopes of the adjacent hills, but for the most part
the coast was barren and desolate.
[Illustration: NATURAL BRIDGE.]
Early on the following morning the sun-capped peaks of Mount Hecla
were visible. There has been no eruption from this mountain since
1845. The principal crater lies 5210 feet above the level of the sea,
and is distant fifteen miles from the shore.
Toward noon we made the Westmann Isles, a small rocky group some ten
miles distant from the main island. A fishing and trading
establishment, owned by a company of Danes, is located on one of these
islands. The _Arcturus_ touches twice a year to deliver and receive a
mail. On the occasion of our visit, a boat came out with a
hardy-looking crew of Danes to receive the mail-bag. It was doubtless
a matter of great rejoicing to them to obtain news from home. I had
barely time to make a rough outline of the islands as we lay off the
settlement.
The chief interest attached to the Westmann group is, that it is
supposed to have been visited by Columbus in 1477, fifteen years prior
to his voyage of discovery to the shores of America. It is now
generally conceded that the Icelanders were the original discoverers
of the American continent. Recent antiquarian researches tend to
establish the fact that they had advanced as far to the southward as
Massachusetts in the tenth century. They held colonies on the coasts
of Greenland and Labrador, and must have had frequent intercourse with
the Indians farther south. Columbus in all probability obtained some
valuable data from these hardy adventurers. The date of his visit to
Iceland is well authenticated by Beamish, Rafn, and other eminent
writers on the early discoveries of the Northmen.
[Illustration: COAST OF ICELAND.]
Nothing could surpass the desolate grandeur of the coast as we
approached the point of Reykjaness. It was of an almost infernal
blackness. The whole country seemed uptorn, rifted, shattered, and
scattered about in a vast chaos of ruin. Huge cliffs of lava split
down to their bases toppled over the surf. Rocks of every
conceivable shape, scorched and blasted with fire, wrested from the
main and hurled into the sea, battled with the waves, their black
scraggy points piercing the mist like giant hands upthrown to smite or
sink in a fierce death-struggle. The wild havoc wrought in the
conflict of elements was appalling. Birds screamed over the fearful
wreck of matter. The surf from the inrolling waves broke against the
charred and shattered desert of ruin with a terrific roar. Columns of
spray shot up over the blackened fragments of lava, while in every
opening the lashed waters, discolored by the collision, seethed and
surged as in a huge caldron. Verily there is One whose "fury is poured
out like fire; the rocks are thrown down by him; the mountains quake,
and the hills melt, and the earth is burned at his presence."
[Illustration: THE MEAL-SACK.]
Passing a singular rock standing alone some twenty miles off the land,
called the _Meal-sack_, we soon changed our course and bore up for the
harbor of Reykjavik. By the time we reached the anchorage our voyage
from Thorshavn had occupied exactly three days and six hours.
Trusting that the reader will pardon me for the frequent delays to
which I have subjected him since we joined our fortunes at Copenhagen,
I shall now proceed to the important labors of the enterprise with
this solemn understanding--that the journey before us is pretty rough,
and the prospect is strong that, in our random dash at the wonders of
Iceland, we will encounter some perilous adventures by flood and
field; but if I don't carry him safely and satisfactorily through them
all, he must console himself by the reflection that many a good man
has been sacrificed in the pursuit of knowledge, and that he will
suffer in excellent company.
CHAPTER XLIII.
REYKJAVIK, THE CAPITAL OF ICELAND.
My first view of the capital of Iceland was through a chilling rain. A
more desolate-looking place I had rarely if ever seen, though, like
Don Quixote's market-woman on the ass, it was susceptible of
improvement under the influence of an ardent imagination. As a subject
for the pencil of an artist, it was at least peculiar, if not
picturesque. A tourist whose glowing fancies had not been nipped in
the bud by the vigors of an extended experience might have been able
to invest it with certain weird charms, but to me it was only the
fag-end of civilization, abounding in horrible odors of decayed polypi
and dried fish. A cutting wind from the distant Jokuls and a searching
rain did not tend to soften the natural asperities of its features. In
no point of view did it impress me as a cheerful place of residence
except for wild ducks and sea-gulls. The whole country for miles
around is a black desert of bogs and lava. Scarcely an arable spot is
to be seen save on the tops of the fishermen's huts, where the sod
produces an abundance of grass and weeds. A dark gravelly slope in
front of the town, dotted with boats, oars, nets, and piles of fish; a
long row of shambling old store-houses built of wood, and painted a
dismal black, varied by patches of dirty yellow; a general
hodge-podge of frame shanties behind, constructed of old boards and
patched up with drift-wood; a few straggling streets, paved with
broken lava and reeking with offal from the doors of the houses; some
dozens of idle citizens and drunken boatmen lounging around the
grog-shops; a gang of women, brawny and weather-beaten, carrying loads
of codfish down to the landing; a drove of shaggy little ponies, each
tied to the tail of the pony in front; a pack of mangy dogs prowling
about in dirty places looking for something to eat, and fighting when
they got it--this was all I could see of Reykjavik, the famous
Icelandic capital.
[Illustration: REYKJAVIK, THE CAPITAL OF ICELAND.]
The town lies on a strip of land between the harbor and a lagoon in
the rear. It is said to contain a population of two thousand, and if
the dogs and fleas be taken into consideration, I have no doubt it
does. Where two thousand human beings can stow themselves in a place
containing but one hotel, and that a very poor one, is a matter of
wonder to the stranger. The houses generally are but one story high,
and seldom contain more than two or three rooms. Some half a dozen
stores, it is true, of better appearance than the average, have been
built by the Danish merchants within the past few years; and the
residence of the governor and the public University are not without
some pretensions to style.
The only stone building in Reykjavik of any importance is the
"Cathedral;" so called, perhaps, more in honor of its great antiquity
than any thing imposing about its style or dimensions. At present it
shows no indications of age, having been patched, plastered, and
painted into quite a neat little church of modern appearance.
[Illustration: GOVERNOR'S RESIDENCE, REYKJAVIK.]
[Illustration: ICELANDIC HOUSES.]
At each end of the town is a small gathering of sod-covered huts,
where the fishermen and their families live like rabbits in a burrow.
That these poor people are not all devoured by snails or crippled with
rheumatism is a marvel to any stranger who takes a peep into their
filthy and cheerless little cabins. The oozy slime of fish and smoke
mingles with the green mould of the rocks; barnacles cover the walls,
and puddles make a soft carpeting for the floors. The earth is
overhead, and their heads are under the earth, and the light of day
has no light job of it to get in edgewise, through the windows. The
beaver-huts and badger-holes of California, taking into consideration
the difference of climate, are palatial residences compared with the
dismal hovels of these Icelandic fishermen. At a short distance they
look for all the world like mounds in a grave-yard. The inhabitants,
worse off than the dead, are buried alive. No gardens, no cultivated
patches, no attempt at any thing ornamental relieves the dreary
monotony of the premises. Dark patches of lava, all littered with the
heads and entrails of fish; a pile of turf from some neighboring bog;
a rickety shed in which the fish are hung up to dry; a gang of
wolfish-looking curs, horribly lean and voracious; a few prowling
cats, and possibly a chicken deeply depressed in spirits--these are
the most prominent objects visible in the vicinity. Sloth and filth go
hand in hand.
[Illustration: CHURCH AT REYKJAVIK.]
The women are really the only class of inhabitants, except the fleas,
who possess any vitality. Rude, slatternly, and ignorant as they are,
they still evince some sign of life and energy compared with the men.
Overtaxed by domestic cares, they go down upon the wharves when a
vessel comes in, and by hard labor earn enough to purchase a few rags
of clothing for their children. The men are too lazy even to carry the
fish out of their own boats. At home they lie about the doors, smoking
and gossiping, and too often drunk. Some are too lazy to get drunk,
and go to sleep over the effort. In truth, the prevailing indolence
among all classes is so striking that one can almost imagine himself
in a Southern clime. There is much about Reykjavik to remind a
Californian traveler of San Diego. The drunken fellows about the
stores, and the racing of horses up and down the streets, under the
stimulus of liquor rather than natural energy, sometimes made me feel
quite at home.
[Illustration: ICELANDERS AT WORK.]
On the morning after my arrival I called to see my young friend
Jonasen, the governor's son, and was most hospitably entertained by
the family. I had a letter of introduction to the governor from the
Minister of the Judiciary at Copenhagen, but thought it unnecessary to
present it. His excellency is a good specimen of the better class of
Icelanders--simple, kind-hearted, and polite. My casual acquaintance
with his son was sufficient to enlist his warmest sympathies. I
thought he would destroy his equilibrium as well as my own by
repeatedly drinking my health and wishing me a hearty welcome to
Iceland. He said he had never seen a Californian before, and seemed
astonished to find that they had noses, mouths, ears, and skins like
other people. In one respect he paid me a practical compliment that I
have rarely enjoyed in the course of my travels--he spoke nearly as
bad French as I did. Now I take it that a man who speaks bad French,
after years of travel on the Continent of Europe, is worthy of some
consideration. He is at least entitled to the distinction of having
well preserved his nationality; and when any foreigner tries to speak
it worse, but doesn't succeed, I can not but regard it as a tribute of
respect.
Young Jonasen, I was glad to see, had gotten over his struggle with
the sardines, and was now in a fair way to enjoy life. His sister,
Miss Jonasen, is a very charming young lady, well educated and
intelligent. She speaks English quite fluently, and does the honors of
the executive mansion with an easy grace scarcely to be expected in
this remote part of the world. Both are natives of Iceland.
I should be sorry to be understood as intimating, in my brief sketch
of Reykjavik, that it is destitute of refined society. There are
families of as cultivated manners here as in any other part of the
world; and on the occasion of a ball or party, a stranger would be
surprised at the display of beauty and style. The University and
public library attract students from all parts of the island, and
several of the professors and literary men have obtained a European
reputation. Two semi-monthly newspapers are published at Reykjavik, in
the Icelandic language. They are well printed, and said to be edited
with ability. I looked over them very carefully from beginning to end,
and could see nothing to object to in any portion of the contents.
CHAPTER XLIV.
GEIR ZÖEGA.
Wishing to see as much of the island as possible during the short time
at my disposal, I made application to young Jonasen for information in
regard to a guide, and through his friendly aid secured the services
of Geir Zöega, a man of excellent reputation.
A grave, dignified man is Geir Zöega, large of frame and strong of
limb; a light-haired, blue-eyed, fresh, honest-faced native, warm of
heart and trusty of hand; a jewel of a guide, who knows every rook,
bog, and mud-puddle between Reykjavik and the Geysers; a gentleman by
nature, born in all probability of an iceberg and a volcano; a
believer in ghosts and ghouls, and a devout member of the Church. All
hail to thee, Geir Zöega! I have traveled many a rough mile with thee,
used up thy brandy and smoked thy cigars, covered my chilled body with
thy coat, listened to thy words of comfort pronounced in broken
English, received thy last kind wishes at parting, and now I say, in
heartfelt sincerity, all hail to thee, Geir Zöega! A better man never
lived, or if he did, he could be better spared at Reykjavik.
To my great discontent, I found it indispensable to have five horses,
although I proposed making the trip entirely without baggage. It
seemed that two were necessary for myself, two for the guide, and one
to carry the provisions and tent, without which it would be very
difficult to travel, since there are no hotels in any part of the
interior. Lodgings may be had at the huts of the peasants, and such
rude fare as they can furnish; but the tourist had better rely upon
his own tent and provisions, unless he has a craving to be fed on
black bread and curds, and to be buried alive under a dismal pile of
sods.
[Illustration: GEIR ZÖEGA.]
The reason why so many horses are required is plain enough. At this
time of the year (June) they are still very poor after their winter's
starvation, the pasturage is not yet good, and, in order to make a
rapid journey of any considerable length, frequent changes are
necessary. Philosophy and humanity combined to satisfy me that the
trip could not well be made with a smaller number. I was a little
inquisitive on that point, partly on the score of expense, and partly
on account of the delay and trouble that might arise in taking care
of so many animals.
If there is any one trait common among all the nations of the earth,
it is a natural sharpness in the traffic of horse-flesh. My experience
has been wonderfully uniform in this respect wherever it has been my
fortune to travel. I have had the misfortune to be the victim of
horse-jockeys in Syria, Africa, Russia, Norway, and even California,
where the people are proverbially honest. I have weighed the
horse-jockeys of the four continents in the balance, and never found
them wanting in natural shrewdness. It is a mistake, however, to call
them unprincipled. They are men of most astonishing tenacity of
principle, but unfortunately they have but one governing principle in
life--to get good prices for bad horses.
On the arrival of the steamer at Reykjavik the competition among the
horse-traders is really the only lively feature in the place.
Immediately after the passengers get ashore they are beset by offers
of accommodation in the line of horse-flesh. Vagabonds and idlers of
every kind, if they possess nothing else in the world, are at least
directly or indirectly interested in this species of property. The
roughest specimens of humanity begin to gather in from the country
around the corners of the streets near the hotel, with all the
worn-out, lame, halt, blind, and spavined horses that can be raked up
by hook or crook in the neighborhood. Such a medley was never seen in
any other country. Barnum's woolly horse was nothing to these shaggy,
stunted, raw-backed, bow-legged, knock-kneed little monsters, offered
to the astonished traveler with unintelligible pedigrees in the
Icelandic, which, if literally translated, must surely mean that they
are a mixed product of codfish and brushwood. The size has but little
to do with the age, and all rules applicable as a test in other parts
of the world fail here. I judged some of them to be about four months
old, and was not at all astonished when informed by disinterested
spectators that they ranged from twelve to fifteen years. Nothing,
in fact, could astonish me after learning that the horses in Iceland
are fed during the winter on dried fish. This is a literal fact. Owing
to the absence of grain and the scarcity of grass, it becomes
necessary to keep life in the poor animals during the severest months
of the season by giving them the refuse of the fisheries; and, what is
very surprising, they relish it in preference to any other species of
food. Shade of Ceres! what an article of diet for horses! Only think
of it--riding on the back of a horse partly constructed of fish! No
wonder some of them blow like whales.
[Illustration: ICELANDIC HORSES.]
In one respect the traveler can not be cheated to any great extent; he
can not well lose more than twelve specie dollars on any one horse,
that being the average price. To do the animals justice, they are like
singed cats--a great deal better than they look. If they are not much
for beauty, they are at least hardy, docile, and faithful; and, what
is better, in a country where forage is sometimes difficult to find,
will eat any thing on the face of the earth short of very hard lava or
very indigestible trap-rock. Many of them, in consequence of these
valuable qualities, are exported every year to Scotland and Copenhagen
for breeding purposes. Two vessels were taking in cargoes of them
during our stay at Reykjavik.
I was saved the trouble of bargaining for my animals by Geir Zöega,
who agreed to furnish me with the necessary number at five Danish
dollars apiece the round trip; that is, about two dollars and a half
American, which was not at all unreasonable. For his own services he
only charged a dollar a day, with whatever _buono mano_ I might choose
to give him. These items I mention for the benefit of my friends at
home who may take a notion to make the trip.
I was anxious to get off at once, but the horses were in the country
and had to be brought up. Two days were lost in consequence of the
heavy rains, and the trail was said to be in very bad condition. On
the morning of the third day all was to be ready; and having
purchased a few pounds of crackers, half a pound of tea, some sugar
and cheese, I was prepared to encounter the perils of the wilderness.
This was all the provision I took. Of other baggage I had none, save
my overcoat and sketch-book, which, for a journey of five days, did
not seem unreasonable. Zöega promised me any amount of suffering; but
I told him Californians rather enjoyed that sort of thing than
otherwise.
CHAPTER XLV.
THE ENGLISH TOURISTS.
My English friends were so well provided with funds and equipments
that they found it impossible to get ready. They had patent tents,
sheets, bedsteads, mattresses, and medicine-boxes. They had guns, too,
in handsome gun-cases; and compasses, and chronometers, and pocket
editions of the poets. They had portable kitchens packed in tin boxes,
which they emptied out, but never could get in again, comprising a
general assortment of pots, pans, kettles, skillets, frying-pans,
knives and forks, and pepper-castors. They had demijohns of brandy and
kegs of Port wine; baskets of bottled porter and a dozen of Champagne;
vinegar by the gallon and French mustard in patent pots; likewise
collodium for healing bruises, and musquito-nets for keeping out
snakes. They had improved oil-lamps to assist the daylight which
prevails in this latitude during the twenty-four hours, and shaving
apparatus and nail-brushes, and cold cream for cracked lips, and
dentifrice for the teeth, and patent preparations for the removal of
dandruff from the hair; likewise lint and splints for mending broken
legs. One of them carried a theodolite for drawing inaccessible
mountains within a reasonable distance; another a photographic
apparatus for taking likenesses of the natives and securing
fac-similes of the wild beasts; while a third was provided with a
brass thief-defender for running under doors and keeping them shut
against persons of evil character. They had bags, boxes, and bales of
crackers, preserved meats, vegetables, and pickles; jellies and
sweet-cake; concentrated coffee, and a small apparatus for the
manufacture of ice-cream. In addition to all these, they had patent
overcoats and undercoats, patent hats and patent boots, gum-elastic
bed-covers, and portable gutta-percha floors for tents; ropes, cords,
horse-shoes, bits, saddles and bridles, bags of oats, fancy packs for
horses, and locomotive pegs for hanging guns on, besides many other
articles commonly deemed useful in foreign countries by gentlemen of
the British Islands who go abroad to rough it. This was roughing it
with a vengeance! It would surely be rough work for me, an uncivilized
Californian, to travel in Iceland or any other country under such a
dreadful complication of conveniences.
When all these things were unpacked and scattered over the beds and
floors of the hotel, nothing could excel the enthusiasm of the whole
party--including myself, for I really had seen nothing in the course
of my travels half so amusing. As an old stager in the camping
business, I was repeatedly appealed to for advice and assistance,
which of course I gave with the natural politeness belonging to all
Californians, suggesting many additions. Warming-pans for the sheets,
pads of eider-down to wear on the saddles, and bathing-tubs to sit in
after a hard ride, would, I thought, be an improvement; but as such
things were difficult to be had in Reykjavik, the hope of obtaining
them was abandoned after some consideration. "In fact," said they, "we
are merely roughing it, and, by Jove, a fellow must put up with some
inconveniences in a country like this!"
[Illustration: ENGLISH PARTY AT REYKJAVIK.]
To carry all these burdens, which, when tied up in packs, occupied an
extra room, required exactly eighteen horses, inclusive of the riders,
and to bargain for eighteen horses was no small job. The last I saw of
the Englishmen they were standing in the street surrounded by a
large portion of the population of Reykjavik, who had every possible
variety of horses to sell--horses shaggy and horses shaved, horses
small and horses smaller, into the mouths of which the sagacious
travelers were intently peering in search of teeth--occasionally
punching the poor creatures on the ribs, probing their backs, pulling
them up by the legs, or tickling them under the tail to ascertain if
they kicked.
At the appointed hour, 6 A.M., Zöega was ready at the door of the
hotel with his shaggy cavalcade, which surely was the most
extraordinary spectacle I had ever witnessed. The horned horses of
Africa would have been commonplace objects in comparison with these
remarkable animals destined to carry me to the Geysers of Iceland.
Each one of them looked at me through a stack of mane containing hair
enough to have stuffed half a dozen chairs; and as for their tails,
they hung about the poor creatures like huge bunches of wool. Some of
them were piebald and had white eyes--others had no eyes at all.
Seeing me look at them rather apprehensively, Zöega remarked,
"Oh, sir, you needn't be afraid. They are perfectly gentle!"
"Don't they bite?" said I.
"Oh no, sir, not at all."
"Nor kick?"
"No, sir, never."
"Nor lie down on the way?"
"No, sir, not at all."
"Answer me one more question, Zöega, and I'm done." [This I said with
great earnestness.] "Do these horses ever eat cats or porcupines, or
swallow heavy brooms with crooked handles?"
"Oh no, sir!" answered my guide, with a look of some surprise; "they
are too well trained for that."
"Then I suppose they subsist on train-oil as well as codfish?"
"Yes, sir, when they can get it. They are very fond of oil."
I thought to myself, No wonder they are so poor and small. Horses
addicted to the use of oil must expect to be of light construction.
But it was time to be off.
A cup of excellent coffee and a few biscuit were amply sufficient to
prepare me for the journey. Our pack-horse carried two boxes and a
small tent--all we required. Before starting Zöega performed the
Icelandic ceremony of tying the horses in a row, each one's head to
the tail of the horse in front. This, he said, was the general
practice. If it were not done they would scatter outside of town, and
it would probably take two hours to catch them again. I had some fear
that if one of the number should tumble over a precipice he would
carry several of his comrades with him, or their heads and tails.
CHAPTER XLVI.
THE ROAD TO THINGVALLA.
It was a gray, gloomy morning when we sallied forth from the silent
streets of Reykjavik. A chilly fog covered the country, and little
more was to be seen than the jagged outline of the lava-hills, and the
boggy sinks and morasses on either side of the trail. The weird,
fire-blasted, and flood-scourged wilderness on all sides was as silent
as death, save when we approached some dark lagoon, and startled up
the flocks of water-fowl that dwelt in its sedgy borders. Then the air
was pierced with wild screams and strange cries, and the rocks
resounded to the flapping of many wings. To me there was a peculiar
charm in all this. It was different from any thing I had recently
experienced. The roughness of the trail, the absence of cultivated
fields, the entire exemption from the restraints of civilization, were
perfectly delightful after a dreary residence of nearly a year in
Germany. Here, at least, there were no passport bureaus, no
meddlesome police, no conceited and disagreeable habitués of public
places with fierce dogs running at their heels, no _Verbotener Wegs_
staring one in the face at every turn. Here all ways possible to be
traveled were open to the public; here was plenty of fresh air and no
lack of elbow-room; here an unsophisticated American could travel
without being persecuted every ten minutes by applications from
distinguished officers in livery for six kreutzers; here an honest
Californian could chew tobacco when he felt disposed, and relieve his
mind by an occasional oath when he considered it essential to a
vigorous expression of his thoughts.
It seemed very strange to be traveling in Iceland, actually plodding
my way over deserts of lava, and breathing blasts of air fresh from
the summit of Mount Hecla! I was at last in the land of the Sagas--the
land of fire, and brimstone, and boiling fountains!--the land which,
as a child, I had been accustomed to look upon as the _ultima Thule_,
where men, and fish, and fire, and water were pitted against each
other in everlasting strife. How often had the fascinating vision of
Icelandic travel crossed my mind; and how often had I dismissed it
with a sigh as too much happiness to hope for in this world! And now
it was all realized. Was I any the happier? Was it what I expected?
Well, we won't probe these questions too far. It was a very strange
reality, at all events.
For the first eight miles the weather was thick and rainy; after that
the sun began to dissipate the gloom, and we had a very pleasant
journey. Though a little chilly in consequence of the moisture, the
air was not really cold. As well as I could judge, the thermometer
ranged about 54° Fahrenheit. It frequently rises to 76° at Thingvalla
during the months of July and August; and at the Geysers, and in some
of the adjacent valleys, the heat is said to be quite oppressive.
[Illustration: A ROUGH ROAD.]
Notwithstanding the roughness of the trail, which in many places
passed for miles over rugged fields of lava, full of sharp, jagged
points and dangerous fissures, we traveled with considerable speed,
seldom slackening from a lope. Zöega untied the horses from each
other's tails soon after passing the road to Hafuarfiord, as there was
no farther danger of their separating, and then, with many flourishes
of his whip and strange cries, well understood by our animals, led the
way. I must confess that, in spite of some pretty hard experience of
bad roads in the coast range of California, there were times during
our mad career over the lava-beds when visions of maimed limbs and a
mutilated head crossed my mind. Should my horse stumble on a stray
spike of lava, what possible chance of escape would there be? Falling
head foremost on harrows and rakes would be fun to a fall here, where
all the instruments capable of human destruction, from razors, saws,
and meat-axes down to spike-nails and punches, were duly represented.
In the course of our journey we frequently overtook pack-trains laden
with dried fish from the sea-shore. The main dependence of the people
throughout the country, during the winter, is upon the fish caught
during the summer. When dried it is done up in packs and fastened on
each side of the horse, something in the Mexican style; and each train
is attended by three or four men, and sometimes by women. About the
month of June the farmers and shepherds go down to Reykjavik, or some
other convenient fishing-station on the sea-shore, and lay in their
supplies of fish and groceries, which they purchase from the traders
by exchanges of wool, butter, and other domestic products. After a few
days of novelty and excitement they go back to their quiet homes,
where they live in an almost dormant state until the next season,
rarely receiving any news from the great outer world, or troubling
their heads about the affairs which concern the rest of mankind. Those
whom we met had in all probability not seen a stranger for a year.
They are an honest, primitive people, decently but very coarsely clad
in rough woolen garments manufactured by themselves, and shaped much
in the European style. On their feet they wear moccasins made of
sheepskin. Whenever we met these pack-trains in any convenient place,
the drivers stopped to have a talk with Zöega, often riding back a
mile or two to enjoy the novelty of his conversation. Being fresh from
the capital, he naturally abounded in stirring news about the price of
codfish, and the value of lard and butter, wool, stockings, mittens,
etc., and such other articles of traffic as they felt interested in.
He could also give them the latest intelligence by the steamer, which
always astonished them, no matter whether it concerned the throwing
overboard of three ponies on the last voyage, or the possible
resumption of operations on the Icelandic telegraph. In every way
Zöega was kind and obliging, and, being well known every where, was
highly appreciated as a man possessed of a remarkable fund of
information. At parting they generally stopped to kiss hands and take
a pinch of snuff.
The first time I witnessed the favorite ceremony of snuff-taking I was
at a loss to understand what it meant. A man with a small horn flask,
which it was reasonable to suppose was filled with powder and only
used for loading guns or pistols, drew the plug from it, and, stopping
quite still in the middle of the road, threw his head back and applied
the tube to his nose. Surely the fellow was not trying to blow his
brains out with the powder-flask! Two or three times he repeated this
strange proceeding, snorting all the time as if in the agonies of
suffocation. The gravity of his countenance was extraordinary. I could
not believe my eyes.
"What an absurd way of committing suicide!" I remarked to Zöega.
"Oh, sir, he is only taking snuff!" was the reply.
"But if he stops up both nostrils, how is he going to breathe?" was my
natural inquiry.
[Illustration: TAKING SNUFF.]
Zöega kindly explained that, when the man's nose was full he would
naturally open his mouth, and as the snuff was very fine and strong
it would eventually cause him to sneeze. In this way it was quite
practicable to blow out the load.
"But don't they ever hang fire and burst their heads?" I asked, with
some concern.
"Why no, sir, I've never heard of a case," answered Zöega, in his
usual grave manner; "in this country every body takes snuff, but I
never knew it to burst any body's head."
It was really refreshing the matter-of-fact manner in which my guide
regarded all the affairs of life. He took every thing in a literal
sense, and was of so obliging a disposition that he would spend hours
in the vain endeavor to satisfy my curiosity on any doubtful point.
"Why, Zöega," said I, "this is a monstrous practice. I never saw any
thing like it. Are you quite sure that fellow won't kick when he tries
to blow his nose?"
"Yes, sir, they never kick."
"Tell me, Zöega, are their breeches strong?"
"Oh yes, sir."
"That's lucky." I was thinking of an accident that once occurred to a
young man of my acquaintance. Owing to a defect in the breech of his
gun, the whole load entered his head and killed him instantaneously.
The gravity of these good people in their forms of politeness is one
of the most striking features in their social intercourse. The
commonest peasant takes off his cap to another when they meet, and
shaking hands and snuff-taking are conducted on the most ceremonious
principles. They do not, however, wholly confine themselves to
stimulants for the nose. As soon as they get down to Reykjavik and
finish their business, they are very apt to indulge in what we call in
California "a bender;" that is to say, they drink a little too much
whisky, and hang around the stores and streets for a day or two in a
state of intoxication. At other times their habits are temperate, and
they pass the greater part of their lives among their flocks, free
from excitement, and as happy as people can be with such limited means
of comfort. The uniformity of their lives would of course be painful
to a people possessed of more energy and a higher order of
intelligence; but the Icelanders are well satisfied if they can keep
warm during the dreary winters, and obtain their usual supplies during
the summer. Sometimes a plague sets in among their sheep and reduces
them to great distress. Fire, pestilence, and famine have from time to
time devastated the island. Still, where their wants are so few, they
can bear with great patience the calamities inflicted upon them by an
all-wise Providence. Owing perhaps to their isolated mode of life,
they are a grave and pious people, simple in their manners,
superstitious, and credulous. They attend church regularly, and are
much devoted to religious books and evening prayers. No family goes to
bed without joining in thanksgiving for all the benefits conferred
upon them during the day. Living as they do amid the grandest
phenomena of nature, and tinctured with the wild traditions of the old
Norsemen, it is not surprising that they should implicitly believe in
wandering spirits of fire and flood, and clothe the desolate wastes of
lava with a poetic imagery peculiarly their own. Every rock, and
river, and bog is invested with a legend or story, to the truth of
which they can bear personal witness. Here a ghost was overtaken by
the light of the moon and turned to stone; there voices were heard
crying for help, and because no help came a farmer's house was burned
the next day; here a certain man saw a wild woman, with long hair, who
lived in a cave, and never came out to seek for food save in the midst
of a storm, when she was seen chasing the birds; there a great many
sheep disappeared one night, and it was thought they were killed and
devoured by a prodigious animal with two heads--and so on, without
end. Nothing is too marvelous for their credulity. One of my most
pleasant experiences was to talk with these good people, through the
aid of my guide, and hear them tell of the wonderful sights they had
seen with their own eyes. Nor do I believe that they had the remotest
intention of stretching the truth. Doubtless they imagined the reality
of whatever they said. It was very strange to one who had lived so
long among a sharp and rather incredulous race of men to hear
full-grown people talk with the simplicity of little children.
About half way on our journey toward Thingvalla it was necessary to
cross a bog, which is never a very agreeable undertaking in Iceland,
especially after heavy rains. This was not the worst specimen of its
kind, though; we afterward passed through others that would be
difficult to improve upon without entirely removing the bottom. A
considerable portion of Iceland is intersected by these treacherous
stretches of land and water, through which the traveler must make his
way or relinquish his journey. Often it becomes a much more difficult
matter to find the way out than to get in. Along the sea-coast, to the
southward and eastward, some of these vast bogs are quite impassable
without the assistance of a guide thoroughly acquainted with every
spot capable of bearing a horse. On the route to the Geysers we
generally contrived to avoid the worst places by making a detour
around the edges of the hills, but this is not always practicable. In
many places the hills themselves abound in boggy ground.
The formation of the Icelandic bog is peculiar. I have seen something
similar on the Pacific coast near Cape Mendocino, but by no means so
extensive and well-defined. In Iceland it consists of innumerable
tufts of earth from two to three feet high, interwoven with vegetable
fibres which render them elastic when pressed by the foot. These tufts
stand out in relief from the main ground at intervals of a few feet
from each other, and frequently cover a large extent of country. The
tops are covered with grass of a very fine texture, furnishing a good
pasture for sheep and other stock. So regular and apparently
artificial is the appearance of these grassy tufts, that I was at
first inclined to think they must be the remains of cultivated
fields--probably potato-hills, or places where corn had grown in
former times. Nor was it altogether unreasonable to suppose that
groves of wood might once have covered these singular patches of
country, and that they had been uprooted and destroyed by some of
those violent convulsions of nature which from time to time have
devastated the island. Dr. Dasent produces ample testimony to show
that, in old times, not only corn grew in Iceland, but wood
sufficiently large to be used in building vessels. Now it is with
great difficulty that a few potatoes can be raised in some of the
warmest spots, and there is not a single tree to be found on the
entire island. The largest bushes I saw were only six or eight feet
high.
A singular fact connected with the bog-formation is that it is often
found in dry places--on the slopes of mountains, for example, in
certain localities where the water never settles and where the ground
is perpetually dry. I was greatly puzzled by this, and was scarcely
satisfied by the explanation given by Zöega, my guide, who said it was
caused by the action of the frost. In proof of the fact that they are
not of artificial formation, and that the process by which they are
developed is always going on, he stated that in many places where they
had been leveled down for sheep-corrals or some such purpose, a
similar formation of tufted hillocks had grown up in the course of a
few years.
I was continually troubled by the circuits made by Zöega to avoid
certain tracts of this kind which to me did not look at all
impracticable. Once I thought it would be a good joke to show him that
a Californian could find his way through the strange country even
better than a native; and watching a chance when he was not on the
look-out--for I suspected what his objection would be--I suddenly
turned my horse toward the bog, and urged him to take the short cut.
It was such a capital idea, that of beating my own guide about two
miles in a journey of little more than half a mile! But, strange to
say, the horse was of Zöega's opinion respecting roads through
Iceland. He would not budge into the bog till I inflicted some rather
strong arguments upon him, and then he went in with great reluctance.
Before we had proceeded a dozen yards he sank up to his belly in the
mire, and left me perched up on two matted tufts about four feet
apart. Any disinterested spectator would have supposed at once that I
was attempting to favor my guide with a representation of the colossal
statue at Rhodes, or the Natural Bridge in Virginia. Zöega, however,
was too warmly interested in my behalf to take it in this way. As soon
as he missed me he turned about, and, perceiving my critical position,
shouted at the top of his voice,
"Sir, you can't go that way!"
[Illustration: AN ICELANDIC BOG.]
"No," said I, in rather a desponding tone, "I see I can't."
"Don't try it, sir!" cried Zöega; "you'll certainly sink if you do!"
"I'll promise you that, Zöega," I answered, looking gloomily toward
the dry land, toward which my horse was now headed, plunging
frantically in a labyrinth of tufts, his head just above the ground.
"Sir, it's very dangerous!" shouted Zöega.
"Any sharks in it?" I asked.
"No, sir; but I don't see your horse!"
"Neither do I, Zöega. Just sing out when he blows!"
But the honest Icelander saw a better method than that, which was to
dismount from his own horse, and jump from tuft to tuft until he got
hold of my bridle. With it of course came the poor animal, which by
hard pulling my trusty guide soon succeeded in getting on dry land.
Meantime I discovered a way of getting out myself by a complicated
system of jumps, and presently we all stood in a group, Zöega scraping
the mud off the sides of my trembling steed, while I ventured to
remark that it was "a little boggy in that direction."
"Yes, sir," said Zöega; "that was the reason I was going round."
And a very sensible reason it was too, as I now cheerfully admitted.
After a medicinal pull at the brandy we once more proceeded on our
way.
I mentioned the fact that there are dry bog-formations on the sides of
some of the hills. It should also be noted that the wet bogs are not
always in the lowest places. Frequently they are found on elevated
grounds, and even high up in the mountains. Approaching a region of
this kind, when the tufts are nearly on a level with the eye, the
effect is very peculiar. It looks as if an army of grim old Norsemen,
on their march through the wilderness, had suddenly sunk to their
necks in the treacherous earth, and still stood in that position with
their shaggy heads bared to the tempests. Often the traveler detects
something like features, and it would not be at all difficult, of a
moonlight night, to mistake them for ghostly warriors struggling to
get out on dry land. Indeed, the simple-minded peasants, with their
accustomed fertility of imagination, have invested them with life, and
relate many wonderful stories about their pranks of dark and stormy
nights, when it is said they are seen plunging about in the water.
Hoarse cries are heard through the gusts of the tempest; and solitary
travelers on their journey retreat in dismay, lest they should be
dragged into the treacherous abode of these ghostly old Norsemen.
Not long after our unpleasant adventure we ascended an eminence or
dividing ridge of lava, from which we had a fine view of the Lake of
Thingvalla. Descending by a series of narrow defiles, we reached a
sandy cañon winding for several miles nearly parallel with the shores
of the lake. The sides of the hills now began to exhibit a scanty
vegetation, and sometimes we crossed a moist patch of pasture covered
with a fine grass of most brilliant and beautiful green. A few huts,
with sod walls or fences around the arable patches in the vicinity,
were to be seen from time to time, but in general the country was very
thinly populated. Flocks of sheep, and occasionally a few horses,
grazed on the hill-sides.
The great trouble of our lives in the neighborhood of these
settlements was a little dog belonging to my guide. Brusa was his
name, and the management of our loose horses was his legitimate
occupation. A bright, lively, officious little fellow was Brusa, very
much like a wolf in appearance, and not unlike a human being in
certain traits of his character. Montaigne says that great fault was
found with him, when he was mayor of his native town, because he was
always satisfied to let things go along smoothly; and though the
citizens admitted that they had never been so free from trouble, they
could not see the use of a mayor who never issued any ordinances or
created any public commotion. Our little dog was of precisely the
same way of thinking. He could see no use in holding office in our
train without doing something, whether necessary or not. So, when the
horses were going along all right, he felt it incumbent upon him to
give chase to the sheep. Stealing away quietly, so that Zöega might
not see him at the start, he would suddenly dart off after the poor
animals, with his shaggy hair all erect, and never stop barking,
snapping, and biting their legs till they were scattered over miles of
territory. He was particularly severe upon the cowardly ewes and
lambs, actually driving them frantic with terror; but the old rams
that stood to make fight he always passed with quiet disdain. It was
in vain Zöega would hold up, and utter the most fearful cries and
threats of punishment: "Hur-r-r-r! Brusa! B-r-r-r-usa!! you
B-r-r-usa!!!" Never a bit could Brusa be stopped once he got fairly
under way. Up hill, and down hill, and over the wild gorges he would
fly till entirely out of sight. In about half an hour he generally
joined the train again, looking, to say the least of it, very
sheepish. I have already spoken of the gravity and dignity of Zöega's
manner. On occasions of this kind it assumed a parental severity truly
impressive. Slowly dismounting from his horse, as if a great duty
devolved upon him, he would unlock one of the boxes on the pack-horse,
take therefrom a piece of bread, deliberately grease the same with
butter, and then holding it forth, more in sorrow than in anger,
invite Brusa to refresh himself after his fatiguing chase of the
sheep. The struggle between a guilty conscience and a sharp appetite
would now become painfully perceptible on the countenance of Brusa as
well as in the relaxation of his tail. As he approached the tempting
morsel nothing could be more abject than his manner--stealing furtive
glances at the eyes of his master, and trying to conciliate him by
wagging the downcast tail between his legs. Alas, poor Brusa! I
suspected it from the beginning. What do you think of yourself now?
Grabbed by the back of the neck in the powerful hands of Geir Zöega!
Not a particle of use for you to whine, and yelp, and try to beg off.
You have been a very bad fellow, and must suffer the consequences.
With dreadful deliberation Zöega draws forth his whip, which has been
carefully hidden in the folds of his coat all this time, and, holding
the victim of his displeasure in mid-air, thus, as I take it,
apostrophizes him in his native language: "O Brusa! have I not fed
thee and cherished thee with parental care? (Whack! yelp! and whack
again.) Have I not been to thee tender and true? (Whack! whack!
accompanied by heart-rending yelps and cries.) And this is thy
ingratitude! This is thy return for all my kindness! O how sharper
than a serpent's tooth is the sting of ingratitude! (Whack.) I warned
thee about those sheep--those harmless and tender little lambs! I
begged thee with tears in my eyes not to run after them; but thou wert
stubborn in thine iniquity; and now what can I do but--(whack)--but
punish thee according to my promise? Wilt thou ever do it again? O
say, Brusa, will thou ever again be guilty of this disreputable
conduct? (A melancholy howl.) It pains me to do it (whack), but it is
(whack) for thine own good! Now hear and repent, and henceforth let
thy ways be the ways of the virtuous and the just!" It was absolutely
delightful to witness the joy of Brusa when the whipping was over.
Without one word of comment Zöega would throw him the bread, and then
gravely mount his horse and ride on. For hours after the victim of his
displeasure would run, and jump, and bark, and caper with excess of
delight. I really thought it was a kindness to whip him, he enjoyed it
so much afterward.
[Illustration: GEIR ZÖEGA AND BRUSA.]
Whenever our loose horses got off the trail or lagged behind, the
services of our dog were invaluable. Zöega had a particular way of
directing his attention to the errant animal. "Hur-r-r-r!--(a roll of
the tongue)--Hur-r-r-r Brusa!" and off Brusa would dash, his hair on
end with rage, till within a few feet of the horse, when he would
commence a series of terrific demonstrations, barking and snapping at
the heels of the vagrant. Backing of ears to frighten him, or kicks at
his head, had no terrors for him; he was altogether too sagacious to
be caught within reach of dangerous weapons.
I know of nothing to equal the sagacity of these Icelandic dogs save
that of the sheep-dogs of France and Germany. They are often sent out
in the pastures to gather up the horses, and will remain by them and
keep them within bounds for days at a time. They are also much used in
the management of sheep. Unlike the regular shepherd-dog of Europe,
however, they are sometimes thievish and treacherous, owing to their
wolfish origin. I do not think we could have made ten miles a day
without Brusa. In the driving of pack-trains a good dog is
indispensable. I always gave the poor fellow something to eat when we
stopped in consideration of his services.
CHAPTER XLVII.
THE ALMANNAJAU.
We rode for some time along an elevated plateau of very barren aspect
till something like a break in the outline became visible a few
hundred yards ahead. I had a kind of feeling that we were approaching
a crisis in our journey, but said nothing. Neither did Zöega, for he
was not a man to waste words. He always answered my questions
politely, but seldom volunteered a remark. Presently we entered a
great gap between two enormous cliffs of lava.
"What's this, Zöega?" I asked.
"Oh, this is the Almannajau."
"What! the great Almannajau, where the Icelandic Parliament used to
camp!"
"Yes, sir; you see the exact spot down there below."
And, in good truth, there it was, some hundreds of feet below, in a
beautiful little green valley that lay at the bottom of the gap. Never
had my eyes witnessed so strange and wild a sight. A great fissure in
the earth nearly a hundred feet deep, walled up with prodigious
fragments of lava, dark and perpendicular, the bases strewn with
molten masses, scattered about in the strangest disorder; a valley of
the brightest green, over a hundred feet wide, stretching like a river
between the fire-blasted cliffs; the trail winding through it in
snake-like undulation--all now silent as death under the grim leaden
sky, yet eloquent of terrible convulsions in by-gone centuries and of
the voices of men long since mingled with the dust. Upon entering the
gorge between the shattered walls of lava on either side, the trail
makes a rapid descent of a few hundred yards till it strikes into the
valley. I waited till my guide had descended with the horses, and then
took a position a little below the entrance, so as to command a view
out through the gorge and up the entire range of the Almannajau.
[Illustration: ENTRANCE TO THE ALMANNAJAU.]
The appended sketch, imperfect as it is, will convey some idea of
the scene; yet to comprise within the brief compass of a sheet of
paper the varied wonders of this terrible gap, the wild disorder of
the fragments cast loose over the earth, the utter desolation of the
whole place would be simply impossible. No artist has ever yet done
justice to the scene, and certainly no mere amateur can hope to attain
better success.
[Illustration: THE ALMANNAJAU.]
Looking up the range of the fissure, it resembles an immense walled
alley, high on one side, and low, broken, and irregular on the other.
The main or left side forms a fearful precipice of more than eighty
feet, and runs in a direct line toward the mountains, a distance of
four or five miles. On the right, toward the plain of Thingvalla, the
inferior side forms nearly a parallel line of rifted and irregular
masses of lava, perpendicular in front and receding behind. The
greater wall presents a dark, rugged face, composed of immense pillars
and blocks of lava, defined by horizontal and vertical fissures,
strangely irregular in detail, but showing a dark, compact, and solid
front. In places it is not unlike a vast library of books, shaken into
the wildest confusion by some resistless power. Whole ranges of
ink-colored blocks are wrenched from their places, and scattered about
between the ledges. Well may they represent the law-books of the old
Icelandic Sagas and judges, who held their councils near this fearful
gorge! Corresponding in face, but less regular and of inferior height,
is the opposite wall. In its molten state the whole once formed a
burning flood, of such vast extent and depth that it is estimated by
geologists nearly half a century must have elapsed before it became
cool. The bottom of this tremendous crack in the sea of lava is almost
a dead level, and forms a valley of about a hundred feet in width,
which extends, with occasional breaks and irregularities, entirely up
to the base of the mountain. This valley is for the most part covered
with a beautiful carpeting of fine green grass, but is sometimes
diversified by fragments of lava shivered off and cast down from the
walls on either side.
The gorge by which we entered must have been impracticable for horses
in its original state. Huge masses of lava, which doubtless once
jammed up the way, must have been hurled over into the gaping fissures
at each side, and something like a road-way cleared out from the chaos
of ruin. Pavements and side-stones are still visible, where it is more
than probable the old Icelanders did many a hard day's work. Eight or
nine centuries have not yet obliterated the traces of the hammer and
chisel; and there were stones cast a little on one side that still
bear the marks of horses' hoofs--the very horses in all probability
ridden by old Sagas and lawgivers. Through this wild gorge they made
their way into the sheltered solitudes of the Almannajau, where they
pitched their tents and held their feasts previous to their councils
on the Lögberg. Here passed the members of the Althing; here the
victims of the Lögberg never repassed again.
[Illustration: SKELETON VIEW OF THE ALMANNAJAU.]
There are various theories concerning the original formation of this
wonderful fissure. It is supposed by some that the flood of lava by
which Thingvalla was desolated in times of which history presents no
record must have cooled irregularly, owing to the variation of
thickness in different parts of the valley; that at this point, where
its depth was great, the contracting mass separated, and the inferior
portion gradually settled downward toward the point of greatest
depression.
Others, again, hold the theory that there was a liquid drain of the
molten lava underneath toward the lake, by means of which a great
subterranean cavity was formed as far back as the mountain; that the
crust on top, being of insufficient strength to bear its own great
weight, must have fallen in as the whole mass cooled, and thus created
this vast crack in the earth.
[Illustration: OUTLINE VIEW OF THINGVALLA.]
I incline to the first of these theories myself, as the most
conformable to the contractile laws of heat. There is also something
like practical evidence to sustain it. A careful examination of the
elevations and depressions on each wall of the gap satisfied me that
they bear at least a very striking analogy. Points on one side are
frequently represented by hollows on the other, and even complicated
figures occasionally find a counterpart, the configuration being
always relatively convex or concave. This would seem to indicate very
clearly that the mass had been forcibly rent asunder, either by the
contractile process of heat, or a convulsion of the earth. The most
difficult point to determine is why the bottom should be so flat and
regular, and what kept the great mass on each side so far intact as to
form one clearly-defined fissure a hundred feet wide and nearly five
miles in length? This, however, is not for an unlearned tourist like
myself to go into very deeply.
How many centuries have passed away since all this happened the first
man who "gazed through the rent of ruin" has failed to leave on
record--if he ever knew it. The great walls of the fissure stood grim
and black before the old Icelandic Sagas, just as they now stand
before the astonished eyes of the tourist. History records no material
change in its aspect. It may be older than the Pyramids of Egypt; yet
it looks as if the eruption by which it was caused might have happened
within a lifetime, so little is there to indicate the progress of
ages. I could not but experience the strangest sensations in being
carried so far back toward the beginning of the world.
At the distance of about a mile up the "Jau" a river tumbles over the
upper wall of lava, and rushes down the main fissure for a few hundred
yards, when it suddenly diverges and breaks through a gap in the
inferior wall, and comes down the valley on the outside toward the
lake.
During my stay at Thingvalla I walked up to this part of the
Almannajau, and made a rough sketch of the waterfall.
From the point of rocks upon which I stood the effect was peculiar.
The course of the river, which lies behind the Jau, on the opposite
side, is entirely hidden by the great wall in front, and nothing of it
is visible till the whole river bursts over the dark precipice, and
tumbles, foaming and roaring, into the tremendous depths below, where
it dashes down wildly among the shattered fragments of lava till it
reaches the outlet into the main valley. A mist rises up from the
falling water, and whirls around the base of the cataract in clouds,
forming in the rays of the sun a series of beautiful rainbows. The
grim, jagged rocks, blackened and rifted with fire, make a strange
contrast with the delicate prismatic colors of the rainbows, and their
sharp and rugged outline with the soft, ever-changing clouds of spray.
[Illustration: FALL OF THE ALMANNAJAU.]
The flocks of the good pastor of Thingvalla were quietly browsing
among the rugged declivities where I stood. Here were violence and
peace in striking contrast; the tremendous concussion of the falling
water; the fearful marks of convulsion on the one hand, and on the
other
"The gentle flocks that play upon the green."
As I put away my imperfect sketch, and sauntered back toward the
hospitable cabin of the pastor, a figure emerged from the rocks, and I
stood face to face with an Icelandic shepherdess.
[Illustration: ICELANDIC SHEPHERD-GIRL.]
Well, it is no use to grow poetical over this matter. To be sure, we
were alone in a great wilderness, and she was very pretty, and looked
uncommonly coquettish with her tasseled cap, neat blue bodice, and
short petticoats, to say nothing of a well-turned pair of ankles; but
then, you see, I couldn't speak a word of Icelandic, and if I could,
what had I, a responsible man, to say to a pretty young shepherdess?
At most I could only tell her she was extremely captivating, and
looked for all the world like a flower in the desert, born to blush
unseen, etc. As she skipped shyly away from me over the rocks I was
struck with admiration at the graceful sprightliness of her movements,
and wondered why so much beauty should be wasted upon silly sheep,
when the world is so full of stout, brave young fellows who would fall
dead in love with her at the first sight. But I had better drop the
subject. There is a young man of my acquaintance already gone up to
Norway to look for the post-girl that drove me over the road to
Trondhjem, and at least two of my friends are now on the way to
Hamburg for the express purpose of witnessing the gyrations of the
celebrated wheeling girls. All I hope is, that when they meet with
those enterprising damsels they will follow my example, and behave
with honor and discretion.
Standing upon an eminence overlooking the valley, I was struck with
wonder at the vast field of lava outspread before me. Here is an area
at least eight miles square, all covered with a stony crust, varying
from fifty to a hundred feet in thickness, rent into gaping fissures
and tossed about in tremendous fragments; once a burning flood,
covering the earth with ruin and desolation wherever it flowed; now a
cold, weird desert, whose gloomy monotony is only relieved by stunted
patches of brushwood and dark pools of water--all wrapped in a
death-like silence. Where could this terrible flood have come from?
The mountains in the distance look so peaceful in their snowy robes,
so incapable of the rage from which all this desolation must have
sprung, that I could scarcely reconcile such terrible results with an
origin so apparently inadequate.
I questioned Zöega on this point, but not with much success. How was
it possible, I asked, that millions and billions of tons of lava could
be vomited forth from the crater of any mountain within sight? Here
was a solid bed of lava spread over the valley, and many miles beyond,
which, if piled up, shrunken and dried as it was, would of itself make
a mountain larger than the Skjaldbraid Jokul, from which it is
supposed to have been ejected.
"Now, Zöega," said I, "how do you make it out that this came from the
Skjaldbraid Jokul?"
"Well, sir, I don't know, but I think it came from the inside of the
world."
"Why, Zöega, the world is only a shell--a mere egg-shell in Iceland I
should fancy--filled with fiery gases."
"Is that possible, sir?" cried Zöega, in undisguised astonishment.
"Yes, quite possible--a mere egg-shell!"
"Dear me, I didn't know that! It is a wonderful world, sir."
"Very--especially in Iceland."
"Then, sir, I don't know how this could have happened, unless it was
done by spirits that live in the ground. Some people say they are
great monsters, and live on burnt stones."
"Do you believe in spirits, Zöega?"
"Oh yes, sir; and don't you? I've seen them many a time. I once saw a
spirit nearly as large as the Skjaldbraid. It came up out of the earth
directly before me where I was traveling, and shook its head as if
warning me to go back. I was badly frightened, and turned my horse
around and went back. Then I heard that my best friend was dying. When
he was dead I married his wife. She's a very good woman, sir, and, if
you please, I'll get her to make you some coffee when we get back to
Reykjavik."
So goes the world, thought I, from the Skjaldbraid Jokul to a cup of
coffee! Why bother our heads about these troublesome questions, which
can only result in proving us all equally ignorant. The wisest has
learned nothing save his own ignorance. He "meets with darkness in the
daytime, and gropes in the noonday as in the night."
CHAPTER XLVIII.
THINGVALLA.
The extensive valley called Thingvalla, or the Valley of the "Thing,"
lies at the head of a lake of the same name, some fifteen miles in
length by six or seven in width. The waters of this lake are
beautifully clear, and the scenery around it is of the wildest and
most picturesque character. Rugged mountains rise from its shores in
various directions, and islands reflect their varied outlines in its
glassy surface. Cranes, wild ducks, plovers, and occasionally swans,
abound in the lagoons that open into it from Thingvalla. The bed of
this fine sheet of water corresponds in its configuration with the
surrounding country. It is of volcanic formation throughout, and the
rifts and fissures in the lava can be traced as far as it is
practicable to see through the water.
On passing out of the Almannajau near the lower fall, where the river
breaks out into the main valley, the view toward the lake is extensive
and imposing. Along the course of the river is a succession of
beautiful little green flats, upon which the horses and cattle of the
good pastor graze; and farther down, on the left, lies the church and
farm-house. Still beyond are vast plains of lava, gradually merging
into the waters of the lake; and in the far distance mountain upon
mountain, till the view is lost in the snowy Jokuls of the far
interior.
Descending into this valley we soon crossed the river, which is
fordable at this season, and in a few minutes entered a lane between
the low stone walls that surround the station.
[Illustration: CHURCH AT THINGVALLA.]
The church is of modern construction, and, like all I saw in the
interior, is made of wood, painted a dark color, and roofed with
boards covered with sheets of tarred canvas. It is a very primitive
little affair, only one story high, and not more than fifteen by
twenty feet in dimensions. From the date on the weather-cock it
appears to have been built in 1858.
The congregation is supplied by the few sheep-ranches in the
neighborhood, consisting at most of half a dozen families. These
unpretending little churches are to be seen in the vicinity of every
settlement throughout the whole island. Simple and homely as they are,
they speak well for the pious character of the people.
The pastor of Thingvalla and his family reside in a group of
sod-covered huts close by the church. These cheerless little hovels
are really a curiosity, none of them being over ten or fifteen feet
high, and all huddled together without the slightest regard to
latitude or longitude, like a parcel of sheep in a storm. Some have
windows in the roof, and some have chimneys; grass and weeds grow all
over them, and crooked by-ways and dark alleys run among them and
through them. At the base they are walled up with big lumps of lava,
and two of them have board fronts, painted black, while the remainder
are patched up with turf and rubbish of all sorts, very much in the
style of a stork's nest. A low stone wall encircles the premises, but
seems to be of little use as a barrier against the encroachments of
live-stock, being broken up in gaps every few yards. In front of the
group some attempt has been made at a pavement, which, however, must
have been abandoned soon after the work was commenced. It is now
littered all over with old tubs, pots, dish-cloths, and other articles
of domestic use.
[Illustration: THE PASTOR'S HOUSE.]
The interior of this strange abode is even more complicated than one
would be led to expect from the exterior. Passing through a
dilapidated doorway in one of the smaller cabins, which you would
hardly suppose to be the main entrance, you find yourself in a long
dark passage-way, built of rough stone, and roofed with wooden rafters
and brushwood covered with sod. The sides are ornamented with pegs
stuck in the crevices between the stones, upon which hang saddles,
bridles, horse-shoes, bunches of herbs, dried fish, and various
articles of cast-off clothing, including old shoes and sheepskins.
Wide or narrow, straight or crooked, to suit the sinuosities of the
different cabins into which it forms the entrance, it seems to have
been originally located upon the track of a blind boa-constrictor,
though Bishop Hatton denies the existence of snakes in Iceland. The
best room, or rather house--for every room is a house--is set apart
for the accommodation of travelers. Another cabin is occupied by some
members of the pastor's family, who bundle about like a lot of
rabbits. The kitchen is also the dog-kennel, and occasionally the
sheep-house. A pile of stones in one corner of it, upon which a few
twigs or scraps of sheep-manure serve to make the fire, constitute the
cooking department. The beams overhead are decorated with pots and
kettles, dried fish, stockings, petticoats, and the remains of a pair
of boots that probably belonged to the pastor in his younger days. The
dark turf walls are pleasantly diversified with bags of oil hung on
pegs, scraps of meat, old bottles and jars, and divers rusty-looking
instruments for shearing sheep and cleaning their hoofs. The floor
consists of the original lava-bed, and artificial puddles composed of
slops and offal of divers unctuous kinds. Smoke fills all the cavities
in the air not already occupied by foul odors, and the beams, and
posts, and rickety old bits of furniture are dyed to the core with the
dense and variegated atmosphere around them. This is a fair specimen
of the whole establishment, with the exception of the travelers' room.
The beds in these cabins are the chief articles of luxury. Feathers
being abundant, they are sewed up in prodigious ticks, which are
tumbled topsy-turvy into big boxes on legs that serve for bedsteads,
and then covered over with piles of all the loose blankets,
petticoats, and cast-off rags possible to be gathered up about the
premises. Into these comfortable nests the sleepers dive every night,
and, whether in summer or winter, cover themselves up under the
odorous mountain of rags, and snooze away till morning. During the
long winter nights they spend on an average about sixteen hours out of
the twenty-four in this agreeable manner. When it is borne in mind
that every crevice in the house is carefully stopped up in order to
keep out the cold air, and that whole families frequently occupy a
single apartment not over ten by twelve, the idea of being able to cut
through the atmosphere with a cleaver seems perfectly preposterous. A
night's respiration in such a hole is quite sufficient to saturate the
whole family with the substance of all the fish and sheepskins in the
vicinity; and the marvel of it is that they don't come out next day
wagging their fins or bleating like sheep. I wonder they ever have any
occasion to eat. Absorption must supply them with a large amount of
nutriment; but I suppose what is gained in that way is lost in the
fattening of certain other members of the household. Warmth seems to
be the principal object, and certainly it is no small consideration in
a country where fuel is so scarce.
I can not conceive of more wretched abodes for human beings. They are,
indeed, very little better than fox-holes--certainly not much sweeter.
Yet in such rude habitations as these the priests of Iceland study the
classical languages, and perfect themselves in the early literature of
their country. Many of them become learned, and devote much of their
lives to the pursuits of science. In the northern part of the country
the houses are said to be better and more capacious; but the example I
have given is a fair average of what I saw.
The passionate devotion of the Icelanders to their homes is almost
inconceivable. I have never seen any thing like it. The most favored
nations of the earth can not furnish examples of such intense and
all-absorbing love of home and country. I traveled with a native of
Reykjavik some weeks after my visit to Thingvalla, and had an
opportunity of judging what his impressions were of other countries.
He was a very intelligent man, well versed in Icelandic literature,
and spoke English remarkably well. Both himself and wife were fellow
passengers on the _Arcturus_ from Reykjavik to Grangemouth. I was
curious to know what a well-educated man would think of a civilized
country, and watched him very closely. He had never seen a railway,
locomotive, or carriage of any kind, not even a tree or a good-sized
house. We stopped at Leith, where we took passage by the train to
Edinburg. As soon as the locomotive started he began to laugh
heartily, and by the time we reached Edinburg he and his wife, though
naturally grave people, were nearly in convulsions of laughter. I had
no idea that the emotion of wonder would be manifested in that way by
civilized beings. Of course I laughed to see them laugh, and
altogether it was very funny. We took rooms at the same hotel,
opposite to Sir Walter Scott's monument. Now it is needless to say
that Edinburg is one of the most beautiful cities in the world. Even
Constantinople can scarcely surpass it in picturesque beauty. The
worthy Icelander, be it remembered, had never seen even a town, except
Reykjavik, of which I have already attempted a description. It was
night when we arrived at Edinburg, so that I had no opportunity of
judging what his impressions would be at that time. Next morning I
knocked at his room door. His wife opened it, looking very sad, as I
thought. At the window, gazing out over the magnificent scene,
embracing the Monument, the Castle, and many of the finest of the
public buildings, stood her husband, the big tears coursing down his
face.
"Well," said I, "what do you think of Edinburg?"
"Oh!" he cried, "oh, I am so home-sick! Oh, my dear, dear native land!
Oh, my own beautiful Iceland! Oh that I were back in my beloved
Reykjavik! Oh, I shall die in this desert of houses! Oh that I could
once more breathe the pure fresh air of my own dear, dear island
home!"
Such were literally his expressions. Not one word had he to say about
the beauties of Edinburg! To him it was a hideous nightmare. The fishy
little huts of Reykjavik, the bleak lava-deserts of the neighborhood,
and the raw blasts from the Jokuls, were all he could realize of a
Paradise upon earth. Yet he was a highly-cultivated and intelligent
man, not destitute of refined tastes. Truly, I thought to myself,
"The shuddering tenant of the frigid zone
Boldly proclaims the happiest spot his own."
While I waited outside the pastor's house, enjoying the oddity of the
scene, Zöega busied himself unsaddling the horses. I sat down on a
pile of fagots, and, with some trouble and a little assistance from my
guide, succeeded in getting off my overalls, which had been thoroughly
drenched with rain and saturated with mud. The occasional duckings we
had experienced in crossing the rivers did not add to my comfort. I
was chilled and wet, and would have given a Danish dollar for the
privilege of sitting at a fire. All this time there was no sign of
life about the premises save the barking of an ill-favored little dog
that was energetically disclaiming any acquaintance with Brusa. I
regret to say that Brusa lost much of his bravado air in the presence
of this insignificant cur, but it was quite natural; the cur was at
home and Brusa wasn't. At first our dog seemed disposed to stand his
ground, but upon the near approach of the house-dog he dropped his
tail between his legs and ingloriously sneaked between the legs of the
horses, which of course gave the gentleman of the house a high opinion
of his own prowess--so much so, indeed, that the craven spirit of
Brusa never before appeared in such a despicable light. He cringed and
howled with terror, which so flattered the vanity of the other that a
ferocious attack was the immediate consequence. Fortunately, a kick
from one of the horses laid Brusa's aggressor yelping in the mud, an
advantage of which Brusa promptly availed himself, and the pastor's
dog would have fared badly in the issue but for the interference of
Zöega, who separated the contending parties, and administered a grave
rebuke to the party of our part respecting the impropriety of his
conduct.
Though it occurred to me that I had seen the retreating figure of a
man as we rode up, I was at a loss to understand why nobody appeared
to ask us in or bid us welcome, and suggested to Zöega that I thought
this rather an unfriendly reception. Now, upon this point of Icelandic
hospitality Zöega was peculiarly sensitive. He always maintained that
the people, though poor, are very hospitable--so much so that they
made no complaint when a certain Englishman, whose name he could
mention, stopped with them for days, ate up all their food and drank
up all their coffee, and then went off without offering them even a
small present. "No wonder," said Zöega, "this man told a great many
lies about them, and laughed at them for refusing money, when the
truth was he never offered them money or any thing else. It was
certainly a very cheap way of traveling."
"But what about the pastor, Zöega? I'm certain I caught a glimpse of
him as he darted behind the door."
"Oh, he'll be here directly; he always runs away when strangers come."
"What does he run away for?"
"Why, you see, sir, he is generally a little dirty, and must go wash
himself and put on some decent clothes."
While we were talking the pastor made his appearance, looking somewhat
damp about the face and hair, and rather embarrassed about the shape
of his coat, which was much too large for him, and hung rather low
about his heels. With an awkward shuffling gait he approached us, and,
having shaken hands with Zöega, looked askant at me, and said
something, which my guide interpreted as follows:
"He bids you welcome, sir, and says his house is at your service. It
is a very poor house, but it is the best he has. He wishes to know if
you will take some coffee, and asks what part of the world you are
from. I tell him you are from California, and he says it is a great
way off, clear down on the other side of the world, and may God's
blessing be upon you. Walk in, sir."
[Illustration: THE PASTOR OF THINGVALLA.]
Pleased with these kind words, I stepped up to the good pastor and
cordially shook him by the hand, at the same time desiring Zöega to
say that I thanked him very much, and hoped he would make it
convenient to call and see me some time or other in California, which,
I regret to add, caused him to look both alarmed and embarrassed. A
queer, shy man was this pastor--a sort of living mummy, dried up and
bleached by Icelandic snows. His manner was singularly bashful. There
was something of the recluse in it--a mixture of shyness, awkwardness,
and intelligence, as if his life had been spent chiefly among sheep
and books, which very likely was the case. All the time I was trying
to say something agreeable he was looking about him as if he desired
to make his escape into some Icelandic bog, and there hide himself
during my stay. I followed him through the passage-way already
mentioned into the travelers' room, where he beckoned me to take a
seat, and then, awkwardly seating himself on the edge of a chair as
far away as he could get without backing through the wall, addressed
me in Danish. Finding me not very proficient in that tongue, he
branched off into Latin, which he spoke as fluently as if it had been
his native language. Here again I was at fault. I had gone as far as
_Quosque tandem_ when a boy, but the vicissitudes of time and travel
had knocked it all out of my head. I tried him on the German, and
there, to use a familiar phrase, had the "dead-wood on him." He
couldn't understand a word of that euphonious language. However, a
slight knowledge of the Spanish, picked up in Mexico and California,
enabled me to guess at some of his Latin, and in this way we struggled
into something of conversation. The effort, however, was too great for
the timid recluse. After several pauses and lapses into long fits of
silence, he got up and took his leave. Meantime Zöega was enjoying
himself by the fire in the kitchen, surrounded by the female members
of the family, who no doubt were eagerly listening to the latest news
from Reykjavik. Whenever their voices became audible I strongly
suspected that the ladies were asking whether the steamer had brought
any crinoline from Copenhagen.
The pastor's family appeared to be composed entirely of females. Like
all the Icelandic women I had seen, they do all the work of the
establishment, attend to the cows, make the cheese, cut the hay, carry
the heavy burdens, and perform the manual labor generally. This I
found to be the case at all the farm-houses. Sometimes the men assist,
but they prefer riding about the country or lying idle about the doors
of their cabins. At Reykjavik, it is true, there is a population of
Danish sailors and fishermen, and it would be scarcely fair to form an
opinion from the lazy and thriftless habits of the people there. But I
think the civilization of Iceland is very much like that of Germany in
respect to women. They are not rated very high in the scale of
humanity. Still, overworked and degraded as they are, the natural
proclivities of the sex are not altogether obliterated. In former
times their costume was picturesque and becoming, and some traces of
the old style are yet to be seen throughout the pastoral districts; a
close body, a jaunty little cap on the head, with a heavy tassel,
ornamented with gold or silver bands, silver clasps to their belts,
and filigree buttons down the front, give them a very pleasing
appearance. Of late years, however, fashion has begun to assert her
sway, even in this isolated part of the world, and the native costume
is gradually becoming modernized.
The pastor having joined the more congenial circle of which Zöega was
the admired centre, I was left alone in the chilly little room
allotted to travelers to meditate upon the comforts of Icelandic life.
It was rather a gloomy condition of affairs to be wet to the skin,
shivering with cold, and not a soul at hand to sympathize with me in
my misery. Then the everlasting day--when would it end? Already I had
been awake and traveling some fourteen hours, and it was as broad
daylight as ever. Nothing could be more wearying than the everlasting
daylight that surrounded me--not bright and sunshiny, but dreary and
lead-colored, showing scarcely any perceptible difference between
morning, noon, and night.
The coffee soon came to my relief, and the pastor followed it to wish
me a good appetite and ask if I wanted any thing else. I again renewed
the attempt at conversation, but it was too much for his nervous
temperament and shrinking modesty. He always managed, after a few
words, to slip stealthily away up into the loft or out among the rocks
to avoid the appearance of intrusion, or the labor of understanding
what I said, or communicating his ideas--I could not tell which.
[Illustration: SKELETON VIEW OF THE LÖGBERG.]
After a slight repast I walked out to take a look at the Lögberg, or
Rock of Laws, which is situated about half a mile from the church.
This is, perhaps, of all the objects of historical association in
Iceland, the most interesting. It was here the judges tried criminals,
pronounced judgments, and executed their stern decrees. On a small
plateau of lava, separated from the general mass by a profound abyss
on every side, save a narrow neck barely wide enough for a foothold,
the famous "Thing" assembled once a year, and, secured from intrusion
in their deliberations by the terrible chasm around, passed laws for
the weal or woe of the people. It was only necessary to guard the
causeway by which they entered; all other sides were well protected by
the encircling moat, which varies from thirty to forty feet in width,
and is half filled with water. The total depth to the bottom, which
is distinctly visible through the crystal pool, must be sixty or
seventy feet. Into this yawning abyss the unhappy criminals were cast,
with stones around their necks, and many a long day did they lie
beneath the water, a ghastly spectacle for the crowd that peered at
them over the precipice.
[Illustration: THINGVALLA, LÖGBERG, ALMANNAJAU.]
All was now as silent as the grave. Eight centuries had passed, and
yet the strange scenes that had taken place here were vividly before
me. I could imagine the gathering crowds, the rising hum of voices;
the pause, the shriek, and plunge; the low murmur of horror, and then
the stern warning of the lawgivers and the gradual dispersing of the
multitude.
The dimensions of the plateau are four or five hundred feet in length
by an average of sixty or eighty in width. A diagram, taken from an
elevated point beyond, will give some idea of its form. The surface is
now covered with a fine coating of sod and grass, and furnishes good
pasturage for the sheep belonging to the pastor.
[Illustration: DIAGRAM OF THE LÖGBERG.]
CHAPTER XLIX.
THE ROAD TO THE GEYSERS.
It was ten o'clock at night when I reached the parsonage. In addition
to my rough ride from Reykjavik, and the various trying adventures on
the way, I had walked over nearly the whole range of the Almannajau,
sketched the principal points of interest, visited the Lögberg, and
made some sketches and diagrams of that, besides accomplishing a
considerable amount of work about the premises of the good pastor, all
of which is now submitted to the kind indulgence of the reader. Surely
if there is a country upon earth abounding in obstacles to the pursuit
of the fine arts, it is Iceland. The climate is the most variable in
existence--warm and cold, wet and dry by turns, seldom the same thing
for half a day. Such, at least, was my experience in June. Wild and
desolate scenery there is in abundance, and no lack of interesting
objects any where for the pencil of an artist; but it is difficult to
conceive the amount of physical discomfort that must be endured by one
who faithfully adheres to his purpose. Only think of sitting down on a
jagged piece of lava, wet to the skin and shivering with cold; a raw,
drizzling rain running down your back and dropping from the brim of
your hat, making rivers on your paper where none are intended to be;
hints of rheumatism shooting through your bones, and visions of a
solitary grave in the wilderness crossing your mind; then, of a
sudden, a wind that scatters your papers far and wide, and sends your
only hat whirling into an abyss from which it is doubtful whether you
will ever recover it--think of these, ye summer tourists who wander,
sketch-book in hand, through the "warbling woodland" and along "the
resounding shore," and talk about being enterprising followers of the
fine arts! Try it in Iceland a while, and see how long your
inspiration will last! Take my word for it, unless you be terribly in
earnest, you will postpone your labors till the next day, and then the
next, and so on to the day that never comes.
Not the least of my troubles was the difficulty of getting a good
night's rest after the fatiguing adventures of the day. There was no
fault to be found with the bed, save that it was made for somebody who
had never attained the average growth of an American; and one might do
without a night-cap, but how in the world could any body be expected
to sleep when there was no night? At twelve o'clock, when it ought to
be midnight and the ghosts stirring about, I looked out, and it was
broad day; at half past one I looked out again, and the sun was
shining; at two I got up and tried to read some of the pastor's books,
which were written in Icelandic, and therefore not very entertaining;
at three I went to work and finished some of my sketches; and at four
I gave up all farther hope of sleeping, and sallied forth to take
another look at the Almannajau.
[Illustration: AN ARTIST AT HOME.]
On my return Zöega was saddling up the horses. A cup of coffee and a
dry biscuit put me in traveling order, and we were soon on our way up
the valley.
For the first few miles we followed the range of the "Jau," from which
we then diverged across the great lava-beds of Thingvalla. It was not
long before we struck into a region of such blasted and barren aspect
that the imagination was bewildered with the dreary desolation of the
scene. The whole country, as far as the eye could reach, was torn up
and rent to pieces. Great masses of lava seemed to have been wrested
forcibly from the original bed, and hurled at random over the face of
the country. Prodigious fissures opened on every side, and for miles
the trail wound through a maze of sharp points and brittle crusts of
lava, with no indication of the course save at occasional intervals a
pile of stones on some prominent point, erected by the peasants as a
way-mark for travelers. Sometimes our hardy little horses climbed like
goats up the rugged sides of a slope, where it seemed utterly
impossible to find a foothold, so tortured and chaotic was the face of
the earth; and not unfrequently we became involved in a labyrinth of
fearful sinks, where the upper stratum had given way and fallen into
the yawning depths below. Between these terrible traps the trail was
often not over a few feet wide. It was no pleasant thing to
contemplate the results of a probable slip or a misstep. The whole
country bore the aspect of baffled rage--as if imbued with a demoniac
spirit, it had received a crushing stroke from the Almighty hand that
blasted and shivered it to fragments.
[Illustration: LAVA-FJELDS.]
There were masses that looked as if they had turned cold while running
in a fiery flood from the crater--wavy, serrated, frothy, like tar
congealed or stiffened on a flat surface. One piece that I sketched
was of the shape of a large leaf, upon which all the fibres were
marked. It measured ten feet by four. Another bore a resemblance to a
great conch-shell. Many were impressed with the roots of shrubs and
the images of various surrounding objects--snail-shells, pebbles,
twigs, and the like. On a larger scale, bubbling brooks, waterfalls,
and whirlpools were represented--now no longer a burning flood, but
stiff, stark, and motionless. One sketch, which is reproduced, bore a
startling resemblance to some of the marble effigies on the tombs of
medieval knights.
[Illustration: EFFIGY IN LAVA.]
The distant mountains were covered with their perpetual mantles of
snow. Nearer, on the verge of the valley, were the red peaks of the
foot-hills. To the right lay the quiet waters of the lake glistening
in the sunbeams. In front, a great black fissure stretched from the
shores of the lake to the base of the mountains, presenting to the eye
an impassable barrier. This was the famous Hrafnajau--the uncouth and
terrible twin-brother of the Almannajau.
A toilsome ride of eight miles brought us to the edge of the Pass,
which in point of rugged grandeur far surpasses the Almannajau, though
it lacks the extent and symmetry which give the latter such a
remarkable effect. Here was a tremendous gap in the earth, over a
hundred feet deep, hacked and shivered into a thousand fantastic
shapes; the sides a succession of the wildest accidents; the bottom a
chaos of broken lava, all tossed about in the most terrific confusion.
It is not, however, the extraordinary desolation of the scene that
constitutes its principal interest. The resistless power which had
rent the great lava-bed asunder, as if touched with pity at the ruin,
had also flung from the tottering cliffs a causeway across the gap,
which now forms the only means of passing over the great Hrafnajau. No
human hands could have created such a colossal work as this; the
imagination is lost in its massive grandeur; and when we reflect that
miles of an almost impassable country would otherwise have to be
traversed in order to reach the opposite side of the gap, the
conclusion is irresistible that in the battle of the elements Nature
still had a kindly remembrance of man.
[Illustration: THE HRAFNAJAU.]
Five or six miles beyond the Hrafnajau, near the summit of a
dividing ridge, we came upon a very singular volcanic formation called
the Tintron. It stands, a little to the right of the trail, on a rise
of scoria and burned earth, from which it juts up in rugged relief to
the height of twenty or thirty feet. This is, strictly speaking, a
huge clinker not unlike what comes out of a grate--hard, glassy in
spots, and scraggy all over. The top part is shaped like a shell; in
the centre is a hole about three feet in diameter, which opens into a
vast subterranean cavity of unknown depth. Whether the Tintron is an
extinct crater, through which fires shot out of the earth in by-gone
times, or an isolated mass of lava, whirled through the air out of
some distant volcano, is a question that geologists must determine.
The probability is that it is one of those natural curiosities so
common in Iceland which defy research. The whole country is full of
anomalies--bogs where one would expect to find dry land, and parched
deserts where it would not seem strange to see bogs; fire where water
ought to be, and water in the place of fire.
While the pack-train followed the trail, Zöega suggested that the
Tintron had never been sketched, and if I felt disposed to "take it
down"--as he expressed it--he would wait for me in the valley below;
so I took it down.
During this day's journey we crossed many small rivers which had been
much swollen by the recent rains. The fording-places, however, were
generally good, and we got over them without being obliged to swim our
horses. One river, the Brúará, gave me some uneasiness. When we
arrived at the banks it presented a very formidable obstacle. At the
only place where it was practicable to reach the water it was a raging
torrent over fifty yards wide, dashing furiously over a bed of lava
with a velocity and volume that bade apparent defiance to any attempt
at crossing. In the middle was a great fissure running parallel with
the course of the water, into which the current converged from each
side, forming a series of cataracts that shook the earth, and made a
loud reverberation from the depths below.
[Illustration: THE TINTRON ROCK.]
I stopped on an elevated bank to survey the route before us. There
seemed to be no possible way of getting over. It was all a wild
roaring flood plunging madly down among the rocks. While I was
thinking what was to be done, Zöega, with a crack of his whip, drove
the animals into the water and made a bold dash after them. It then
occurred to me that there was a good deal of prudence in the advice
given by an Icelandic traveler: "_Never go into a river till your
guide has tried it._" Should Zöega be swept down over the cataract, as
appeared quite probable, there would be no necessity for me to follow
him. I had a genuine regard for the poor fellow, and it would pain me
greatly to lose him; but then he was paid so much per day for risking
his life, and how could I help it if he chose to pursue such a
perilous career? Doubtless he had come near being drowned many a time
before; he seemed to be used to it. All I could do for him in the
present instance would be to break the melancholy intelligence to his
wife as tenderly as possible. While thus philosophizing, Zöega plunged
in deeper and deeper till he was surrounded by the raging torrent on
the very verge of the great fissure. Was it possible he was going to
force his horse into it? Surely the man must be crazy.
"Stop, Zöega! stop!" I shouted, at the top of my voice; "you'll be
swept over the precipice. There's a great gap in the river just before
you."
"All right, sir!" cried Zöega. "Come on, sir!"
Again and again I called to him to stop but he seemed to lose my voice
in the roar of the falling waters. Dashing about after the scattered
animals, he whipped them all up to the brink of the precipice, and
then quietly walked his own horse across on what looked to me like a
streak of foam. The others followed, and in a few minutes they all
stood safely on the opposite bank. I thought this was very strange. A
remote suspicion flashed across my mind that Zöega was in league with
some of those water-spirits which are said to infest the rivers of
Iceland. Wondering what they would say to a live Californian, I
plunged in and followed the route taken by my guide. Upon approaching
the middle of the river I discovered that what appeared to be a streak
of foam was in reality a wooden platform stretched across the chasm
and covered by a thin sheet of water. It was pinned down to the rocks
at each end, and was well braced with rafters underneath. From this
the river derives its name--Brúará, or the Bridge.
The general aspect of the country differed but little from what I have
already attempted to describe. Vast deserts of lava, snow-capped
mountains in the distance, a few green spots here and there, and no
apparent sign of habitation--these were its principal features. Below
the falls the scene was peculiarly wild and characteristic. Tremendous
masses of lava cast at random amid the roaring waters; great fissures
splitting the earth asunder in all directions; every where marks of
violent convulsion. In the following sketch I have endeavored to
depict some of these salient points. When it is taken into
consideration that the wind blew like a hurricane through the craggy
ravines; that the rain and spray whirled over, and under, and almost
through me; that it was difficult to stand on any elevated spot
without danger of being blown over, I hope some allowance will be made
for the imperfections of the performance.
[Illustration: BRIDGE RIVER.]
About midway between Thingvalla and the Geysers we descended into a
beautiful little valley, covered with a fine growth of grass, where we
stopped to change horses and refresh ourselves with a lunch. While
Zöega busied himself arranging the packs and saddles, our
indefatigable little dog Brusa availed himself of the opportunity to
give chase to a flock of sheep. Zöega shouted at him as usual, and as
usual Brusa only barked the louder and ran the faster. The sheep
scattered over the valley, Brusa pursuing all the loose members of the
flock with a degree of energy and enthusiasm that would have done
credit to a better cause. Upon the lambs he was particularly severe.
Many of them must have been stunted in their growth for life by the
fright they received; and it was not until he had tumbled half a dozen
of them heels over head, and totally dispersed the remainder, that he
saw fit to return to head-quarters. The excitement once over, he of
course began to consider the consequences, and I must say he looked as
mean as it was possible for an intelligent dog to look. Zöega took him
by the nape of the neck with a relentless hand, and heaving a profound
sigh, addressed a pathetic remonstrance to him in the Icelandic
language, giving it weight and emphasis by a sharp cut of his whip
after every sentence. This solemn duty performed to his satisfaction,
and greatly to Brusa's satisfaction when it was over, we mounted our
horses once more and proceeded on our journey.
A considerable portion of this day's ride was over a rolling country,
somewhat resembling the foot-hills in certain parts of California. On
the right was an extensive plain, generally barren, but showing
occasional green patches; and on the left a rugged range of mountains,
not very high, but strongly marked by volcanic signs. We passed
several lonely little huts, the occupants of which rarely made their
appearance. Sheep, goats, and sometimes horses, dotted the
pasture-lands. There was not much vegetation of any kind save patches
of grass and brushwood. A species of white moss covered the rocks in
places, presenting the appearance of hoar-frost at a short distance.
CHAPTER L.
THE GEYSERS.
Upon turning the point of a hill where our trail was a little elevated
above the great valley, Zöega called my attention to a column of vapor
that seemed to rise out of the ground about ten miles distant. For all
I could judge, it was smoke from some settler's cabin situated in a
hollow of the slope.
"What's that, Zöega?" I asked.
"That's the Geysers, sir," he replied, as coolly as if it were the
commonest thing in the world to see the famous Geysers of Iceland.
"The Geysers! That little thing the Geysers?"
"Yes, sir."
"Dear me! who would ever have thought it?"
I may as well confess at once that I was sadly disappointed. It was a
pleasure, of course, to see what I had read of and pictured to my
mind, from early boyhood; but this contemptible little affair looked
very much like a humbug. A vague idea had taken possession of my mind
that I would see a whole district of country shooting up hot water and
sulphurous vapors--a kind of hell upon earth; but that thing ahead of
us--that little curl of smoke on the horizon looked so peaceful, so
inadequate a result of great subterranean fires, that I could not but
feel some resentment toward the travelers who had preceded me, and
whose glowing accounts of the Geysers had deceived me. At this point
of view it was not at all equal to the Geysers of California. I had a
distinct recollection of the great cañon between Russian River Valley
and Clear Lake, the magnificent hills on the route, the first glimpse
of the infernal scene far down in the bed of the cañon, the boiling,
hissing waters, and clouds of vapor whirling up among the rocks, the
towering crags on the opposite side, and the noble forests of oak and
pine that spread "a boundless contiguity of shade" over the wearied
traveler, and I must say a patriotic pride took possession of my soul.
We had beaten the world in the production of gold; our fruits were
finer and our vegetables larger than any ever produced in other
countries; our men taller and stronger, our women prettier and more
prolific, our lawsuits more extensive, our fights the best ever gotten
up, our towns the most rapidly built and rapidly burned--in short,
every thing was on a grand, wide, broad, tall, fast, overwhelming
scale, that bid defiance to competition, and now I was satisfied we
could even beat old Iceland in the matters of Geysers. I really felt
a contempt for that little streak of smoke. Perhaps something in the
expression of my eye may have betrayed my thoughts, for Zöega, as if
he felt a natural pride in the wonders of Iceland and wished them to
be properly appreciated, hastily added, "But you must not judge of the
Geysers by what you now see, sir! That is only the little Geyser. He
don't blow up much. The others are behind the first rise of ground."
"That may be, Zöega. I have no doubt they are very fine, but it is not
within the bounds of possibility that they should equal the Geysers of
California."
"Indeed, sir! I didn't know you had Geysers there."
"Didn't know it! Never heard of the Geysers of California?"
"Never, sir."
"Well, Zöega, that is remarkable. Our Geysers are the finest, the
bitterest, the smokiest, the noisiest, the most infernal in the world;
and as for mountains, our Shasta Bute would knock your Mount Hecla
into a cocked hat!"
"Is it possible!"
"Of course it is."
"And have you great lava-beds covering whole valleys as we have here?"
"Certainly--only they are made of gold. We call them Placers--Gold
Placers."
"A wonderful country, sir!"
"Would you like to go there, Zöega?"
"No, sir; I'd rather stay here."
[Illustration: SHEPHERD AND FAMILY.]
And so we talked, Zöega and I, as we jogged along pleasantly on our
way. Our ride, after we caught the first sight of the smoke,
continued for some two hours over a series of low hills, with little
green valleys lying between, till we came to an extensive bog that
skirts the base of the Langarfjal, a volcanic bluff forming the
background of the Geysers. It was now becoming interesting. Half an
hour more would settle the matter conclusively between California
and Iceland. Crossing the bog where it was not very wet, we soon came
to a group of huts at the turning-point of the hill, where we were
met by a shepherd and his family. All turned out, big and little, to
see the strangers. The man and his wife were fair specimens of
Icelandic peasantry--broad-faced, blue-eyed, and good-natured, with
yellowish hair, and a sort of mixed costume, between the civilized
and the barbarous. The children, of which there must have been over a
dozen, were of the usual cotton-head species found in all Northern
countries, and wore any thing apparently they could get, from the
cast-off rags of their parents to sheepskins and raw hide. Nothing
could surpass the friendly interest of the old shepherd. He asked
Zöega a thousand questions about the "gentleman," and begged that we
would dismount and do him the honor to take a cup of coffee, which
his wife would prepare for us in five minutes. Knowing by experience
that five minutes in Iceland means any time within five hours, I was
reluctantly obliged to decline the invitation. The poor fellow seemed
much disappointed, and evidently was sincere in his offers of
hospitality. To compromise the matter, we borrowed a spade from him,
and requested him to send some milk down to our camp as soon as the
cows were milked.
Although these worthy people lived not over half a mile from the
Geysers, they could not tell us when the last eruption had taken
place--a most important thing for us to know, as the success of the
trip depended almost entirely upon the length of time which had
elapsed since that event. The man said he never took notice of the
eruptions. He saw the water shooting up every few days, but paid no
particular attention to it. There might have been an eruption
yesterday, or this morning, for all he knew; it was impossible for him
to say positively. "In truth, good friend," said he to Zöega, "my head
is filled with sheep, and they give me trouble enough." It was
evidently filled with something, for he kept scratching it all the
time he was talking.
Many travelers have been compelled to wait a week for an eruption of
the Great Geyser, though the interval between the eruptions is not
usually more than three days. A good deal depends upon the previous
state of the weather, whether it has been wet or dry. Sometimes the
eruptions take place within twenty-four hours, but not often. The
Great Geyser is a very capricious old gentleman, take him as you will.
He goes up or keeps quiet just to suit himself, and will not put
himself the least out of the way to oblige anybody. Even the Prince
Napoleon, who visited this region a few years ago, spent two days
trying to coax the grumbling old fellow to favor him with a
performance, but all to no purpose. The prince was no more to a Great
Geyser than the commonest shepherd--not so much, in fact, for his
finest displays are said to be made when nobody but some poor shepherd
of the neighborhood is about. In former times the eruptions were much
more frequent than they are now, occurring at least every six hours,
and often at periods of only three or four. Gradually they have been
diminishing in force and frequency, and it is not improbable they will
cease altogether before the lapse of another century. According to the
measurements given by various travelers, among whom may be mentioned
Dr. Henderson, Sir George Mackenzie, Forbes, Metcalfe, and Lord
Dufferin, the height to which the water is ejected varies from eighty
to two hundred feet. It is stated that these Geysers did not exist
prior to the fifteenth century; and one eruption--that of 1772--is
estimated by Olsen and Paulsen to have reached the extraordinary
height of three hundred and sixty feet. All these measurements appear
to me to be exaggerated.
Ascending a slope of dry incrusted earth of a red and yellowish color,
we first came upon the Little Geyser, a small orifice in the ground,
from which a column of steam arose. A bubbling sound as of boiling
water issued from the depths below, but otherwise it presented no
remarkable phenomena. In a few minutes more we stood in the middle of
a sloping plateau of some half a mile in circuit, which declines into
an extensive valley on the right. Within the limits of this area there
are some forty springs and fissures which emit hot water and vapors.
None of them are of any considerable size, except the Great Geyser,
the Strokhr, and the Little Geyser. The earth seems to be a mere crust
of sulphurous deposits, and burnt clay, and rotten trap-rock, and is
destitute of vegetation except in a few spots, where patches of grass
and moss present a beautiful contrast to the surrounding barrenness.
In its quiescent state the scene was not so striking as I had
expected, though the whirling volumes of smoke that filled the air,
and the strange sounds that issued from the ground in every direction,
filled my mind with strong premonitions of what might take place at
any moment. I did not yet relinquish my views in reference to the
superiority of the California Geysers; still, I began to feel some
misgiving about it when I looked around and saw the vastness of the
scale upon which the fixtures were arranged here for hydraulic
entertainments. If we could beat Iceland in the beauty of our scenery,
it was quite apparent that the advantage lay here in the breadth and
extent of the surrounding desolation--the great lava-fields, the
snow-capped Jokuls, and the distant peaks of Mount Hecla.
We rode directly toward the Great Geyser, which we approached within
about fifty yards. Here was the camping-ground--a pleasant little
patch of green sod, where the various travelers who had preceded us
had pitched their tents. Zöega knew every spot. He had accompanied
most of the distinguished gentlemen who had honored the place with
their presence, and had something to say in his grave, simple way
about each of them. Here stood Lord Dufferin's tent. A lively young
gentleman he was; a very nice young man; told some queer stories about
the Icelanders; didn't see much of the country, but made a very nice
book about what he saw; had a great time at the governor's, and drank
every body drunk under the table, etc. Here, close by, the Prince
Napoleon pitched his tent--a large tent, very handsomely decorated;
room for all his officers; very fine gentleman the prince; had lots of
money; drank plenty of Champagne; a fat gentleman, not very tall; had
blackish hair, and talked French; didn't see the Great Geyser go up,
but saw the Strokhr, etc. Here was Mr. Metcalfe's tent; a queer
gentleman, Mr. Metcalfe; rather rough in his dress; wrote a funny book
about Iceland; told some hard things on the priests; they didn't like
it at all; didn't know what to make of Mr. Metcalfe, etc. Here was Mr.
Chambers's camp--a Scotch gentleman; very nice man, plain and
sensible; wrote a pamphlet, etc. And here was an old tent-mark, almost
rubbed out, where an American gentleman camped about ten years ago;
thought his name was Mr. Miles. This traveler also wrote a book, and
told some funny stories.
"Was it Pliny Miles?" I asked.
"Yes, sir, that was his name. I was with him all the time."
"Have you his book?"
"Yes, sir, I have his book at home. A very queer gentleman, Mr. Miles;
saw a great many things that I didn't see; says he came near getting
drowned in a river."
"And didn't he?"
"Well, sir, I don't know. I didn't see him when he was near being
drowned. You crossed the river, sir, yourself, and know whether it is
dangerous."
"Was it the Brúará?"
"No, sir; one of the other little rivers, about knee-deep."
Here was food for reflection. Zöega, with his matter-of-fact eyes,
evidently saw things in an entirely different light from that in which
they presented themselves to the enthusiastic tourists who accompanied
him. Perhaps he would some time or other be pointing out my tent to
some inquisitive visitor, and giving him a running criticism upon my
journal of experiences in Iceland. I deemed it judicious, therefore,
to explain to him that gentlemen who traveled all the way to Iceland
were bound to see something and meet with some thrilling adventures.
If they didn't tell of very remarkable things, nobody would care
about reading their books. This was the great art of travel; it was
not exactly lying, but putting on colors to give the picture effect.
"For my part, Zöega," said I, "having no great skill as an artist, and
being a very plain, unimaginative man, as you know, I shall confine
myself strictly to facts. Perhaps there will be novelty enough in
telling the truth to attract attention."
"The truth is always the best, sir," replied Zöega, gravely and
piously.
"Of course it is, Zöega. This country is sufficiently curious in
itself. It does not require the aid of fiction to give it effect.
Therefore, should you come across any thing in my narrative which may
have escaped your notice, depend upon it I thought it was true--or
ought to be."
"Yes, sir; I know you would never lie like some of these gentlemen."
"Never! never, Zöega! I scorn a lying traveler above all things on
earth."
But these digressions, however amusing they were at the time, can
scarcely be of much interest to the reader.
Even after the lapse of several years the marks around the
camping-ground were quite fresh. The sod is of very fine texture, and
the grass never grows very rank, so that wherever a trench is cut to
let off the rain, it remains, with very little alteration, for a great
length of time.
On the principle that a sovereign of the United States ought never to
rank himself below a prince of any other country, I selected a spot a
little above the camping-ground of his excellency the Prince Napoleon.
By the aid of my guide I soon had the tent pitched. It was a small
affair--only an upright pole, a few yards of canvas, and four wooden
pins. The whole concern did not weigh twenty pounds, and only covered
an area of ground about four feet by six. Zöega then took the horses
to a pasture up the valley. I amused myself making a few sketches of
the surrounding objects, and thinking how strange it was to be here
all alone at the Geysers of Iceland. How many of my friends knew where
I was? Not one, perhaps. And should all the Geysers blow up together
and boil me on the spot, what would people generally think of it? Or
suppose the ground were to give way and swallow me up, what difference
would it make in the price of consols or the temperature of the ocean?
When Zöega came back, he said, if I pleased, we would now go to work
and cut sods for the Strokhr. It was a favorable time "to see him
heave up." The way to make him do that was to make him sick. Sods
always made him sick. They didn't agree with his stomach. Every
gentleman who came here made it a point to stir him up. He was called
the Strokhr because he churned things that were thrown down his
throat; and Strokhr means _churn_. I was very anxious to see the
performance suggested by Zöega, and readily consented to assist him in
getting the sods.
The Strokhr lay about a hundred yards from our tent, nearly in a line
between the Great and Little Geysers. Externally it presents no very
remarkable feature, being nothing more than a hole in the bed of
rocks, about five feet in diameter, and slightly funnel-shaped at the
orifice. Standing upon the edge, one can see the water boiling up and
whirling over about twenty feet below. A hollow, growling noise is
heard, varied by an occasional hiss and rush, as if the contents were
struggling to get out. It emits hot vapors, and a slight smell of
sulphur; otherwise it maintains rather a peaceful aspect, considering
the infernal temper it gets into when disturbed.
Zöega and I worked hard cutting and carrying the sods for nearly half
an hour, by which time we had a large pile on the edge of the orifice.
Zöega said there was enough. I insisted on getting more. "Let us give
him a dose that he won't forget." "Oh, sir, nobody ever puts more than
that in; it is quite enough." "No; I mean to make him deadly sick.
Come on, Zöega." And at it we went again, cutting the sod, and
carrying it over and piling it up in a great heap by the hole. When we
had about a ton all ready, I said to Zöega, "Now, Zöega, fire away,
and I'll stand here and see how it works." Then Zöega pushed it all
over, and it went slapping and dashing down into the steaming shaft.
For a little while it whirled about, and surged, and boiled, and
tumbled over and over in the depths of the churn with a hollow,
swashing noise terribly ominous of what was to come. I peeped over the
edge to try if I could detect the first symptoms of the approaching
eruption. Zöega walked quietly away about twenty steps, saying he
preferred not to be too close. There was a sudden growl and a rumble,
a terrible plunging about and swashing of the sods below, and fierce,
whirling clouds of steam flew up, almost blinding me as they passed.
"Sir," said Zöega, gravely, "you had better stand away. It comes up
very suddenly when it once starts."
"Don't be afraid, Zöega; I'll keep a sharp look-out for it. You may
depend there's not a Geyser in Iceland can catch me when I make a
break."
"Very well, sir; but I'd advise you to be careful."
Notwithstanding this good counsel, I could not resist the fascination
of looking in. There was another tremendous commotion going on--a
roar, a whirling over of the sods, and clouds of steam flying up. This
time I ran back a few steps. But it was a false alarm. Nothing came of
it. The heaving mass seemed to be producing the desired effect,
however. The Strokhr was evidently getting very sick. I looked over
once more. All below was a rumbling, tumbling black mass, dashing over
and over against the sides of the churn. Soon a threatening roar not
to be mistaken startled me. "Look out, sir!" shouted Zöega; "look
out!" Unlike the Frenchman who looked out when he should have looked
in, I unconsciously looked in when I should have looked out. With a
suddenness that astonished me, up shot the seething mass almost in my
face. One galvanic jump--an involuntary shout of triumph--and I was
rolling heels over head on the crust of earth about ten feet off, the
hot water and clumps of sod tumbling down about me in every direction.
Another scramble brought me to my feet, of which I made such good use
that I was forty yards beyond Zöega before I knew distinctly what had
happened. The poor fellow came running toward me in great
consternation.
"Are you hurt, sir? I hope you're not hurt!" he cried, in accents of
great concern.
"Hurt!" I answered. "Didn't you see me rolling over on the ground
laughing at it? Why, Zöega, I never saw any thing so absurd as that in
my life; any decent Geyser would have given at least an hour's notice.
This miserable little wretch went off half cocked. I was just laughing
to think how sick we made him all of a sudden!"
"Oh, that was it, sir! I thought you were badly hurt."
"Not a bit of it. You never saw a man who had suffered serious bodily
injury run and jump with joy, and roll with laughter as I did."
"No, sir, never, now that I come to think of it."
Somehow it was always pleasant to talk with Zöega, his simplicity was
so refreshing.
The display was really magnificent. An immense dark column shot into
the air to the height of sixty or seventy feet, composed of
innumerable jets of water and whirling masses of sod. It resembled a
thousand fountains joined together, each with a separate source of
expulsion. The hissing hot water, blackened by the boiled clay and
turf, spurted up in countless revolving circlets, spreading out in
every direction and falling in torrents over the earth, which was
deluged for fifty feet around with the dark, steaming flood. This,
again sweeping into the mouth of the funnel, fell in thick streams
into the churn, carrying with it the sods that were scattered within
its vortex, and once more heaved and surged about in the huge caldron
below.
The eruption continued for about five minutes without any apparent
diminution of force. It then subsided into fitful and convulsive jets,
as if making a last effort, and finally disappeared with a deep growl
of disappointment. All was now quiet save the gurgling of the murky
water as it sought its way back. Zöega said it was not done yet--that
this was only a beginning. I took my sketch-book and resolved to seize
the next opportunity for a good view of the eruption, taking, in the
mean time, a general outline of the locality, including a glimpse of
the Langarfjal. Just as I had finished up to the orifice the same
angry roar which had first startled me was repeated, and up shot the
dark, boiling flood in grander style than ever. This time it was
absolutely fearful. There could be no doubt the dose of sods we had
tumbled into the stomach of the old gentleman was making him not only
dreadfully sick, but furiously angry.
At this moment, as if the elements sympathized in his distress, fierce
gusts of wind began to blow down from the Langarfjal. So sudden and
violent were they that it was difficult to maintain a foothold in our
exposed position; and the tall column of fountains, struck with the
full violence of the wind, presented a splendid spectacle of strength
and rage--surging, and swaying, and battling to maintain its erect
position, and showing in every motion the irresistible power with
which it was ejected. Steam, and water, and sods went whirling down
into the valley; the very air was darkened with the shriven and
scattered currents; and a black deluge fell to the leeward, hundreds
of yards beyond the orifice. The weird and barren aspect of the
surrounding scenery was never more impressive.
"What do you think of the Strokhr, sir?" asked Zöega, with some pride.
"Is it equal to the Geysers of California?"
[Illustration: THE STROKHR.]
I was rather taken aback at the honest bluntness of this question,
and must admit that I felt a little crest-fallen when I came to
compare the respective performances. Therefore I could only answer, in
rather a casual way,
"Well, Zöega, to tell you the truth, ours don't get quite so sick as
this, owing, no doubt, to the superior salubrity of our climate. You
might throw sods into them all day, and they wouldn't make such a fuss
about it as the Strokhr makes about a mere handful. Their digestion,
you see, is a great deal stronger."
"Oh, but wait, sir, till you see the Great Geyser; that's much better
than the Strokhr."
"Doubtless it is very fine, Zöega. Still I can't help but think our
California Geysers are in a superior condition of health. It is true
they smoke a good deal, but I don't think they impair their digestion
by such stimulating food as the Geysers of Iceland. Judging by the
eruptions of the Strokhr, I should say he feeds exclusively on fire
and water, which would ruin the best stomach in the world."
Zöega looked troubled. He evidently did not comprehend my figurative
style of speech. So the conversation dropped.
The column of water ejected from the Strokhr, unlike that of the Great
Geyser, is tall and slender, and of almost inky blackness. In the case
of the Great Geyser no artificial means interrupt its operations; in
that of the Strokhr the pressure of foreign substances produces
results not natural to it.
After the two eruptions which I have attempted to describe, the waters
of the Strokhr again subsided into sobs and convulsive throes. Some
half an hour now elapsed before any thing more took place. Then there
was another series of growls, and a terrible swashing about down in
the churn, as if all the demons under earth were trying to drown one
another, and up shot the murky flood for the third time. Thus it
continued at intervals more and more remote, till a late hour in the
night, making desperate efforts to disgorge the sods that were swept
back after every ejection, and to rid itself of the foul water that
remained. Those attempts gradually grow fainter and fainter, subsiding
at last into mere grumblings. I looked into the orifice the next
morning, and was surprised to find the water yet discolored. It was
evident, from the uneasy manner in which it surged about, that the
dose still produced unpleasant effects.
Having finished my sketch, I returned to the tent, in front of which
Zöega had meantime spread a cloth, with some bread and cheese on it,
and such other scraps of provisions as we had. A little boy from the
neighboring sheep-ranch brought us down some milk and cream, and I
thought if we only had a cup of tea on to warm us up after the chilly
wind our supper would be luxurious.
"Just in time, sir," said Zöega; "I'll make the tea in a minute."
"Where's your fire."
"Oh, we don't need fire here--the hot water is always ready. There's
the big boiler up yonder!"
I looked where Zöega pointed, and saw, about a hundred yards off, a
boiling caldron. This was our grand tea-kettle. Upon a nearer
inspection, I found that it consisted of two great holes in the rocks,
close together, the larger of which was about thirty feet in
circumference, and of great depth. The water was as clear as crystal.
It was easy to trace the white stratum of rocks, of which the sides
were formed, down to the neck of the great shaft through which the
water was ejected. Flakes of steam floated off from the surface of the
crystal pool, which was generally placid. Only at occasional intervals
did it show any symptoms of internal commotion. By dipping my finger
down a little way I found that it was boiling hot. Five minutes
immersion would be sufficient to skin and boil an entire man.
Nature has bountifully put these boilers here for the use of
travelers. Not a stick or twig of wood grows within a circuit of many
miles, and without fuel of course it would be impossible to cook
food. Here a leg of mutton submerged in a pot can be beautifully
boiled; plum-puddings cooked; eggs, fish, or any thing you please,
done to a nicety. All this I knew before, but I had no idea that the
water was pure enough for drinking purposes. Such, however, is the
fact. No better water ever came out of the earth--in a boiled
condition. To make a pot of tea, you simply put your tea in your pot,
hold on to the handle, dip the whole concern down into the water, keep
it there a while to draw, and your tea is made.
I found it excellent, and did not, as I apprehended, discover any
unpleasant flavor in the water. It may be slightly impregnated with
sulphur, though that gives it rather a wholesome smack. To me,
however, it tasted very much like any other hot water.
[Illustration: SIDE-SADDLE.]
When I returned to the tent, and sat down to my frugal repast, and ate
my bread and cheese, and quaffed the fragrant tea, Zöega sitting near
by respectfully assisting me, something of the old California feeling
came over me, and I enjoyed life once more after years of travel
through the deserts of civilization in Europe. What a glorious thing
it is to be a natural barbarian! This was luxury! this was joy! this
was Paradise upon earth! Ah me! where is the country that can equal
California? Brightest of the bright lands of sunshine; richest,
rarest, loveliest of earth's beauties! like Phædra to the mistress of
his soul, I love you by day and by night, behave in the company of
others as if I were absent; want you; dream of you; think of you; wish
for you; delight in you--in short, I am wholly yours, body and soul!
If ever I leave you again on a wild-goose chase through Europe, may
the Elector of Hesse-Cassel appoint me his prime minister, or the Duke
of Baden his principal butler!
Very little indication of the time was apparent in the sky. The sun
still shone brightly, although it was nearly ten o'clock. I did not
feel much inclined to sleep, with so many objects of interest around.
Apart from that, there was something in this everlasting light that
disturbed my nervous system. It becomes really terrible in the course
of a few days. The whole order of nature seems reversed. Night has
disappeared altogether. Nothing but day remains--dreary, monotonous,
perpetual day. You crave the relief of darkness; your spirits, at
first exuberant, go down, and still down, till they are below zero;
the novelty wears away, and the very light becomes gloomy.
People must sleep, nevertheless. With me it was a duty I owed to an
overtaxed body. Our tent was rather small for two, and Zöega asked
permission to sleep with an acquaintance who lived in a cabin about
two miles distant. This I readily granted. It was something of a
novelty to be left in charge of two such distinguished characters as
the Great Geyser and the Strokhr. Possibly they might favor me with
some extraordinary freaks of humor, such as no other traveler had yet
enjoyed. So, bidding Zöega a kindly farewell for the present, I closed
the front of the tent, and tried to persuade myself that it was night.
With the light streaming in through the crevices of the tent, it was
no easy matter to imagine that this was an appropriate time to "steep
the senses in forgetfulness." I was badly provided with covering, and
the weather, though not absolutely cold, was damp and chilly. In my
hurry to get off, I had forgotten even the small outfit with which I
originally thought of making the journey. All I now had in the way of
bedding was a thin shawl, and an old overall belonging to Captain
Andersen, of the steamer. I put one on the ground and the other over
my body, and with a bag of hard bread under my head by way of a
pillow, strove to banish the notion that it was at all uncomfortable.
There was something in this method of sleeping to remind me of my
California experience. To be sure there was a lack of blankets, and
fire, and pleasant company, and balmy air, and many other luxuries;
but the general principle was the same, except that it was impossible
to sleep. The idea of being utterly alone, in such an outlandish part
of the world, may have had something to do with the singular activity
of my nervous system. It seemed to me that somebody was thrusting
cambric needles into my skin in a sudden and violent manner, and at
the most unexpected places; and strange sounds were continually
buzzing in my ears. I began to reflect seriously upon the condition of
affairs down underneath my bed. Doubtless it was a very fiery and
restless region, or all these smokes and simmering pools would not
disfigure the face of the country. How thick was the shell of the
earth at this particular spot? It sounded very thin all over--a mere
crust, through which one might break at any moment. Here was boiling
water fizzing and gurgling all around, and the air was impregnated
with strong odors of sulphur. Suppose the whole thing should burst up
of a sudden? It was by no means impossible. What would become of my
sketches of Iceland in the event of such a catastrophe as that? What
sort of a notice would my editorial friends give of the curious manner
in which I had disappeared? And what would Zöega think in the
morning, when he came down from the farm-house, and saw that his tent
and provision-boxes were gone down in a great hole, and that an
American gentleman, in whom he had the greatest confidence, had not
only carried them with him, but failed to pay his liabilities before
starting? Here, too, was the sun only slightly dipped below the
horizon at midnight, and the moon shining overhead at the same time.
Every thing was twisted inside out and turned upside down. It was
truly a strange country.
Having tossed and tumbled about for an indefinite length of time, I
must have fallen into an uneasy doze. During the day I had been
thinking of the rebellion at home, and now gloomy visions disturbed my
mind. I thought I saw moving crowds dressed in black, and heard
wailing sounds. Funerals passed before me, and women and children wept
for the dead. The scene changed, and I saw hosts of men on the
battle-field, rushing upon each other and falling in deadly strife. A
dreary horror came over me. It was like some dreadful play, in which
the stake was human life. Blood was upon the faces of the dying and
the dead. In the effort to disentangle the right from the wrong--to
seek out a cause for the calamity which had fallen upon us--a racking
anguish tortured me, and I vainly strove to regain my scattered
senses. Then, in the midst of this confused dream, I heard the booming
of cannon--at first far down in the earth, but gradually growing
nearer, till, with a start, I awoke. Still the guns boomed! Surely the
sounds were real. I could not be deceived. Starting to my feet, I
listened. Splashing and surging waters, and dull, heavy reports,
sounded in the air. I dashed aside the lining of the tent and looked
out. Never shall I forget that sight--the Great Geyser in full
eruption! A tremendous volume of water stood in bold relief against
the sky, like a tall weeping willow in winter swaying before the wind,
and shaking the white frost from its drooping branches. Whirling
vapors and white wreaths floated off toward the valley. All was clear
overhead. A spectral light, which was neither of day nor of night,
shone upon the dark, lava-covered earth. The rush and plashing of the
fountain and the booming of the subterranean guns fell with a
startling distinctness upon the solitude. Streams of glittering white
water swept the surface of the great basin on all sides, and dashed
hissing and steaming into the encircling fissures. A feathery spray
sparkled through the air. The earth trembled, and sudden gusts of wind
whirled down with a moaning sound from the wild gorges of the
Langarfjal.
It did not appear to me that the height of the fountain was so great
as it is generally represented. So far as I could judge, the greatest
altitude at any time from the commencement of the eruption was not
over sixty feet. Its volume, however, greatly exceeded my
expectations, and the beauty of its form surpassed all description. I
had never before seen, and never again expect to see, any thing equal
to it. This magnificent display lasted, altogether, about ten minutes.
The eruption was somewhat spasmodic in its operation, increasing or
diminishing in force at each moment, till, with a sudden dash, all the
water that remained was ejected, and then, after a few gurgling
throes, all was silent.
I no longer attempted to sleep. My mind was bewildered with the
wonders of the scene I had just witnessed. All I could do was to make
a cup of tea at the big boiler on the slope above my tent, and walk
about, after drinking it, to keep my feet warm. Soon the sun's rays
appeared upon the distant mountains. A strange time of the night for
the sun to be getting up--only half past one--when people in most
other parts of the world are snug in bed, and don't expect to see a
streak of sunshine for at least four or five hours. How different from
any thing I had ever before seen was the sunrise in Iceland! No
crowing of the cock; no singing of the birds; no merry plow-boys
whistling up the horses in the barn-yard; no cherry-cheeked
milk-maids singing love-ditties as they tripped the green with their
pails upon their heads. All was grim, silent, and death-like. And yet
surely, for all that, the delicate tints of the snow-capped mountains,
the peaks of which were now steeped in the rays of the rising sun, the
broad valley slumbering in the shade, the clear, sparkling atmosphere,
and the exquisite coloring of the Langarfjal--the mighty crag that
towers over the Geysers--were beauties enough to redeem the solitude
and imbue the deserts with a celestial glory.
There are various theories concerning the cause of these eruptions of
water in Iceland. That of Lyell, the geologist, seems the most
reasonable. The earth, as it is well known, increases in heat at a
certain ratio corresponding with the depth from the surface. There are
cavities in many parts of it, arising from subterranean disturbances,
into which the water percolates from the upper strata. In Iceland the
probability is that these cavities are both numerous and extensive,
owing to volcanic causes, and form large receivers for the water of
the surrounding neighborhood. Wherever there is a natural outlet, as
at the Geysers, this water, which is boiled by the heat of the earth,
is forced to the surface by compression of steam, and remains at the
mouth of the pipe, or shaft, until an accumulation of compressed steam
drives it up in the form of a fountain. The periodical occurrence of
these eruptions in some of the hot-springs and not in others may arise
from a difference in the depth of the receiver, or more probably from
the existence of several outlets for the escape of steam in some, and
only one in others. A good illustration of this theory is presented in
the boiling of an ordinary tea-kettle. When the compression of steam
is great, the cover is lifted up and the water shoots from the spout,
by which means the pressure is relieved and the water subsides. The
same thing is repeated until the space within the kettle becomes
sufficiently large to admit of a more rapid condensation of the steam.
The action of the Strokhr, which, as I have shown, differs from that
of the Great Geyser, may be accounted for on the same general
principle. The foreign substances thrown in on top of the boiling
water stops the escape of steam, which, under ordinary circumstances,
is sufficiently great not to require the periodical relief of an
eruption. An accumulation of compressed steam takes place in the
reservoir below, and this continues until the obstruction is ejected.
[Illustration: GREAT GEYSER AND RECEIVER.]
[Illustration: STROKHR AND RECEIVER.]
This, I believe, is substantially Lyell's theory; though, having no
books by me at present, I quote entirely from memory, and it is
possible I may be mistaken in some of the details. The preceding
diagrams will enable the reader to understand more clearly the whole
process by which these eruptions are produced.
Six long hours remained till ordinary breakfast-time. What was to be
done? It was getting terribly lonesome. I felt like one who had been
to a theatre and seen all the performances. Zöega had promised to be
back by eight o'clock; but eight o'clock in Iceland, on the 21st of
June, is a late hour of the day. A treatise on trigonometry might be
written between sunrise and that unapproachable hour. The only thing I
could do was to make some more tea and eat a preliminary breakfast.
When that was done nothing remained but to go to work in front of my
little tent and finish up my rough sketches. This is a very absorbing
business, as every body knows who has tried it, and I was deeply into
it when Zöega made his appearance.
"Well, sir," said he, "what success? Did he erupt?"
"Of course he erupted, Zöega. You didn't suppose a Great Geyser would
keep a gentleman all the way from California waiting here an entire
night without showing him what he could do?"
"No, sir; but he sometimes disappoints travelers. How do you like it?
Does he compare with your California Geysers?"
"Well, Zöega, he throws up more hot water, to be sure, because our
Geysers don't erupt at all; but here is the grand difference. We
Californians are a moral people; we don't live so near to (I pointed
down below) as you do in Iceland."
"I don't understand you, sir," said Zöega, with a puzzled expression.
I called him over and whispered in his ear, "Zöega, I hope you're a
good man. Do you say your prayers regularly?"
"Yes, sir."
"Then you are all right. Let us be going. I don't like this
neighborhood."
"Whenever you wish, sir. The horses are all ready."
And Zöega proceeded to strike the tent and pack the animals, muttering
to himself and shaking his head gravely, as if he thought the
Californians were a very peculiar race of men, to say the least of
them.
Another cup of tea and a few biscuits served to brace us up for the
journey, and we mounted our horses and turned their heads homeward.
Brusa was so delighted at the idea of being _en route_ once more that
he signalized our departure by giving chase to a flock of sheep, which
he dispersed in a most miraculous manner, and then, of course,
received the customary punishment.
CHAPTER LI.
THE ENGLISH SPORTS IN TROUBLE.
Our ride back to Thingvalla was over the same trail which we had
traveled on the preceding day, with the exception of a short cut to
the right of the Tintron rock. We made very good speed, and reached
the Parsonage early in the afternoon.
During our absence a young Englishman had arrived from the North,
where he had been living for a year. I found him in the travelers'
room, surrounded by a confused medley of boxes, bags, books, and
Icelandic curiosities, which he was endeavoring to reduce to some kind
of order. Had I not been told he was an Englishman I should never have
suspected it, either from his appearance or manner. When I entered the
room he stood up and looked at me, and I must say, without intending
him the slightest disrespect, that he was the most extraordinary
looking man I ever saw in all my life, not excepting a tattooed
African chief that I once met at Zanzibar. Whether he was young or old
it was impossible to say--he might be twenty-five or just as likely
fifty. Dirty and discolored with travel, his face was generally dark,
though it was somewhat relieved by spots of yellow. His features were
regular, and of almost feminine softness; his eyes were dark brown;
and his hair, which was nearly black, hung down over his shoulders in
lank straight locks, sunburnt or frostbitten at the ends. On his head
he wore a tall, conical green wool hat, with a broad brim, and a brown
band tied in a true lover's knot at one side. The remainder of his
costume consisted of a black cloth roundabout, threadbare and dirty; a
pair of black casimere pantaloons, very tight about the legs and burst
open in several places; and a pair of moccasins on his feet, adorned
with beads and patches of red flannel. If he wore a shirt it was not
conspicuous for whiteness, for I failed to discover it. When he saw
that a stranger stood before him, he looked quite overwhelmed with
astonishment, and gasped out some inarticulate words, consisting
principally of Icelandic interjections.
"How do you do, sir?" said I, in the usual California style. "I'm glad
to meet an Englishman in this wild country!"
"Ye'ow-w-w!" (a prolonged exclamation.)
"Just arrived, sir?"
"Nay-y-y!" (a prolonged negative.)
"You speak English, I believe, sir?"
"Oh-h-h! Ya-a-a-s. Are--you--an--Englishman?"
"No, sir. An American, from California."
"De-e-e-a-r-r m-e-e!"
[Illustration: OH-O-O-AH!]
Here there was a pause, for I really did not know what to make of the
man. He looked at the ceiling, and at the floor, and out of the
window, and started a remark several times, but always stopped before
he got under way, or lost it in a prolonged "Oh-o-o-a!" Again and
again he attempted to speak, never getting beyond a word or two. It
seemed as if some new idea were continually crossing his mind and
depriving him of his breath: he labored under a chronic astonishment.
At first I supposed it might be the natural result of a year's absence
in the interior of Iceland, but subsequent acquaintance with him
satisfied me that it was constitutional. He was astonished all the
way from Reykjavik to Scotland. When it rained he opened his eyes as
if they would burst; looked up in the sky, and cried "Oh-h-h!" When it
blew he tumbled into his berth, covered himself up in the blankets,
peeped out in the most profound amazement, and ejaculated "Ah-h-h!
Oh-h-h! Hay-y-y! Ye'ow-w-w!" When the weather was fine he came up on
deck, peered over the bulwarks, up at the rigging, down into the
engine-room, and was perfectly astounded at each object, exclaiming
alternately "Oh-h-o-o-a-a-h!" "Ah-ha!" "H-a-y!" and "Ye'ow-w-w-w!" At
Thingvalla his main food was curds and black bread, yet he had an
abundance of the best provisions. He was a thorough Icelandic scholar,
and spoke the language with ease and grace, only when interrupted by
the novel ideas that so often struck him in the head. With all his
oddity, he was a gentleman by birth and education, and was very
amiable in his disposition. He had evidently spent much of his life
over books; his knowledge of the world scarcely equaled that of a
child. From all that I could gather of his winter's experiences in
North Iceland, the climate was not very severe, except at occasional
intervals when there was a press of ice-fields along the coast. The
mean temperature was quite moderate. He suffered no inconvenience at
all from the weather. At times it was very pleasant. He had the
misfortune to break his leg in climbing over some lava-bergs, which
crippled him for some weeks, but he was now getting all right again.
This account of his experiences, which I obtained from him during the
evening, took many divergences into the "Ohs!" and "Ahs!" and was
really both instructive and entertaining. When he came to the breaking
of his leg, I expressed my astonishment at the equanimity with which
he bore it, which so astonished him, when he came to think of it in
that light, that he cried "Oh-h-a-a! ya-a-s! It--was--very--bad!" as
if he had entirely forgotten how bad it was, and now made a new and
most singular discovery.
As there was only the one small room we had to sleep at pretty close
quarters, the Englishman on the sofa and I in the bed, which for some
reason was awarded to me by the good pastor. Having no preference, I
offered to exchange; but this only astonished my eccentric neighbor,
and set him off into a labyrinth of interjections. Our heads were
placed pretty close together, and it was some time before I could
settle myself to sleep, owing to a variety of peculiar sounds he made
in whispering to himself. He seemed to be telling himself some
interminable story from one of the Sagas. Several times I dozed off,
and was awakened by some extraordinary ejaculation.
"I beg your pardon," said I, at length, rising up, and looking in the
face of my neighbor, who was lying on his back, with his eyes wide
open, "I beg your pardon, sir; did you speak to me?"
"Oh-h-h-a!" shouted the Englishman, jumping up as if touched with a
streak of electricity. "Dear me! ha--oh-o-o! How very odd!"
"Sir?"
"Eh?"
"Good-night, sir!" I said, and lay down again. The Englishman also
composed himself to rest, but presently rose up, and looking over at
me, exclaimed "Oh-o-o-ah!"
This was all. Then we both composed ourselves to sleep. Tired as I was
after my ride from the Geysers and the bad night I had passed there,
it was no wonder I soon lost all consciousness of the proximity of my
eccentric room-mate, and the probability is I would have gotten well
through the night but for another singular and unexpected
interruption.
"Hello! What the devil! Who's here? By Jove, this is jolly! I say!
Where the dooce is our American friend? Down, Bowser! Down! Blawst the
dog! Ho! ho! Look there, Tompkins! I say! Here's a go!"
There was a tramping of feet, a knocking about of loose things in the
room, and a chorus of familiar voices in the adjoining passage. It is
needless to say that the party of sporting Englishmen had arrived from
Reykjavik.
"Oh-h-a! Ye-o-w!" exclaimed my room-mate, starting up, and gazing
wildly at the lively young gentleman with the dog. "Oh-o-o! How very
odd!"
The jolly sportsman looked at the apparition in perfect amazement.
Both stared at each other for a moment, as if such an extraordinary
sight had never been witnessed on either side before.
"By Jove! this is jolly!" muttered the lively gentleman, turning on
his heel and walking out; "a devilish rum-looking chap, that!"
"Oh-o-o-o!" was all my astonished room-mate said, after which he
turned over and composed himself to sleep. I had purposely refrained
from manifesting any symptoms of wakefulness, well-knowing that there
would be no farther rest that night if I once discovered myself to the
traveling party.
At a seasonable hour in the morning, however, I got up, and looked
about in search of my fellow-passengers, whom I really liked, and in
whose progress I felt a considerable interest. They were camped close
by the church, under the lee of the front door. Two canvas tents
covered what was left of them. A general wreck of equipments lay
scattered all around--broken poles, boxes, tinware, etc. It was plain
enough they had encountered incredible hardships.
[Illustration: THE ENGLISH PARTY.]
The usual greetings over, I inquired how they had enjoyed the trip
from Reykjavik. In reply they gave me a detailed and melancholy
history of their experiences. Riley's Narrative of Shipwreck, and
subsequent hardships on the coast of Africa, was nothing to it. Of the
twenty-five horses with which they left Reykjavik only thirteen were
sound of wind, and of these more than half were afflicted with raw
backs. The pack-animals, eighteen in number, were every one lame. Then
the packs were badly done up, and broke to pieces on the way.
Sometimes the ropes cut the horses' backs, and sometimes the horses
lay down on the road, and tried to travel with their feet in the air.
Incredible difficulty was experienced in making twelve miles the first
day. It rained all the time. The bread was soaked; the tea destroyed;
the sugar melted; and the Champagne baskets smashed. When the packs
were taken off it was discovered that some of them wore quite empty,
and the contents, consisting originally of hair-brushes, flea-powder,
lip-salve, and cold-cream, were strewn along the road probably all the
way from Reykjavik. The cot-fixtures were swelled and wouldn't fit;
the tea-kettle was jammed into a cocked-hat; the tent-pins were lost,
and the hatchet nowhere to be found. It was a perfect series of jams,
smashes, and scatterings. Even the sheets were filled with mud, and
wholly unfit for use until they could be washed and done up. One horse
lay down on the portable kitchen, and flattened it into a general
pancake; another attempted to take an impression of his own body on
the photographic apparatus, and reduced it (the apparatus) to
fragments; another, wishing perhaps to see his face as others saw him,
raked off the looking-glasses against a point of lava, and walked on
them; and, lastly, one stupid beast contrived in some way to get his
nose into a mustard-case which had fallen from a pack in front, and,
snuffing up the mustard, got his nostrils burnt and went perfectly
crazy, kicking, plunging, and charging at all the other horses till he
drove them all as crazy as himself, whereby a prodigious amount of
damage was done. In short, it was a series of disasters from beginning
to end; and here they were now but two days' journey from Reykjavik (I
had made the whole distance easily in seven hours), and, by Jove,
there was no telling how much longer it would be possible to keep the
guide. They had already quarreled with him several times, and
threatened to discharge him. He was a stupid dunce, and a rascal and a
cheat into the bargain. On the whole, it was a "rum" sort of a country
to travel in. No game, no roads, no shops, no accommodations for man
or beast! And who ever saw such houses for people to live in? Mere
sheep-pens! Disgustingly filthy! A beastly set of ragamuffins! By
Jove, sir, if it wasn't for the name of the thing, a fellow might as
well be in the infernal regions at once! In truth, I must acknowledge
that the interior of an Icelandic hut does not present a very
attractive spectacle to a stranger.
I deeply sympathized with my friends, and urged them to leave the
remainder of their baggage. If there was any medicine left, a dose of
quinine all around might do them good and prevent any ill effects from
the rain; but, on the whole, I thought they would get along better
with less baggage.
"Less baggage!" cried all together. "Why, hang it, our baggage is
scattered along the trail clear back to Reykjavik! It has been growing
less ever since we started. By the time we reach the Geysers it is
questionable if we'll have as much as a fine-tooth comb left!"
"Then," said I, "you can travel. Sell a dozen of your horses on the
way, and you'll be rid of another trouble!"
"Sell them; they wouldn't bring a farthing. They're not worth a
groat."
"Then turn them loose."
"That's a jolly idea," said the lively sportsman; "how the deuce are
we to travel without pack-horses?"
"Oh, nothing easier. You don't need pack-horses when you have no
packs."
"By Jove, there's something in that!" said the jolly gentleman. "Our
American friend ought to know. He's seen the elephant before."
This proposition gave rise to an animated discussion, during which I
wished them a prosperous tour, and took my leave. Of their subsequent
career I have heard nothing, save that they arrived safely in England,
and published various letters in the newspapers giving glowing
accounts of their Icelandic experience.
[Illustration: INTERIOR OF ICELANDIC HUT.]
Nothing of importance occurred on the way back to Reykjavik. I
arrived there early in the afternoon safe and sound, and greatly
benefited by the trip. Like the beatings received by Brusa, the
experience was delightful when it was over. I paid off my excellent
guide Geir Zöega, and made him a present of the few articles that
remained from the expedition. It is a great pleasure to be able to
recommend a guide heartily and conscientiously. A worthier man than
Geir Zöega does not exist, and I hereby certify that he afforded me
entire satisfaction. No traveler who desires an honest, intelligent,
and conscientious guide can do better than secure his services. Long
life and happiness to you, Geir Zöega! May your shadow never be less;
and may your invaluable little dog Brusa live to profit by your wise
counsel and judicious administration of the rod.
CHAPTER LII.
A FRIGHTFUL ADVENTURE.
The _Arcturus_ had been delayed in discharging freight by a series of
storms which prevailed at the bay, and was now down at Haparanda Fjord
taking in ballast. The probability was that she would not leave for
several days. Meantime I was extremely anxious to see a little more of
domestic life in Iceland, and made several foot-expeditions to the
farm-houses in the neighborhood of Reykjavik.
At one of these I passed a night. In giving the details of an awkward
adventure that befell me on that occasion, it is only necessary for me
to say of the house that it was built in the usual primitive style,
already described at some length. The people were farmers, and the
family consisted of an old man and his wife, three or four stout sons,
and a buxom daughter some twenty years of age. A few words of Danish
enabled me to make them understand that I wished for a cup of coffee,
some bread, and lodgings for the night. They were exceeding kind, and
seemed greatly interested in the fact that I was an American--probably
the first they had ever seen. The coffee was soon ready; a cloth was
spread upon the table, and a very good supper of bread, cheese, and
curds placed before me. I passed some hours very sociably, giving
them, as well as I could by means of signs and diagrams, aided by a
few words of Danish, a general idea of California, its position on the
globe, and the enormous amount of gold which it yielded. Evidently
they had heard some exaggerated rumors of the country. The name was
familiar to them, but they had no idea where this El Dorado was, or
whether there was any truth in the statement that the mountains were
made of gold, and all the rocks in the valleys of pure silver. My
efforts to enlighten them on these points were rather ludicrous. It
was miraculous how far I made a few words go, and how quick they were
to guess at my meaning.
About eleven o'clock the old people began to manifest symptoms of
drowsiness, and gave me to understand that whenever I felt disposed to
go to bed the girl would show me my room. A walk of ten or twelve
miles over the lava-bergs rendered this suggestion quite acceptable,
so I bade the family a friendly good-night, and followed the girl to
another part of the house. She took me into a small room with a bed in
one corner. By a motion of her hand she intimated that I could rest
there for the night. I sat down on the edge of the bed and said it was
very good--that I was much obliged to her. She still lingered in the
room, however, as if waiting to see if she could be of any farther
assistance. I could not be insensible to the fact that she was a very
florid and good-natured looking young woman; but, of course, that was
none of my business. All I could do with propriety was to thank her
again, and signify by taking off my overcoat that I was about to go to
bed. Still she lingered, apparently disposed to be as friendly as
circumstances would permit. It was somewhat awkward being alone in a
strange room with a person of the opposite sex, young and rather
pretty, without saying any thing particular. Her silence, as well as
my own, was getting embarrassing. I attempted to carry on a
conversation in Danish, of which I soon discovered she knew even less
than I did myself. She answered my remarks, however, in her native
tongue, with a very sweet voice, and in such a sociable way that I
felt sure she meant to be kind and hospitable. In vain I waited for
her to leave. It was getting late, and her parents might feel anxious
about her. Still she manifested no disposition to go away. What could
the girl mean? was a question that now began to enter my head.
Probably I had taken possession of her room, and she had no other
place to sleep. If so, it was not my fault. Nobody could hold me
responsible for such a peculiar family arrangement. Seeing no
alternative but to test the point, I gradually began to take off my
coat. So far from being abashed at the movement, she seized hold of
the sleeves and helped me off with it. I did the same with my vest,
and still with the same result. Then I pulled off my boots, but with
no better prospect of relief from my embarrassing dilemma. Finally I
came to my pantaloons, at which I naturally hesitated. It was about
time for the young woman to leave, if she had any regard for my
feelings. I thanked her very cordially; but she showed no symptoms of
leaving. It was plain that she meant to help me through with the
business. I sat for some time longer before I could bring myself to
this last trying ordeal. There was something so pure and innocent in
the expression of the young woman's face--such an utter
unconsciousness of any impropriety in our relative positions, that I
scarcely knew what to do or think. "She wants to help me off with my
pantaloons--that's plain!" said I to myself. "Perhaps it is the custom
in Iceland; but it is very awkward, nevertheless." The fact is, you
see, I was not quite old enough to be the girl's father, nor yet quite
young enough to be put to bed like her youngest brother. Between the
two extremes of the case I was considerably troubled. To reject her
kind offers of service might be deemed rude, and nothing was farther
from my intention than to offend this amiable young person. Allowing a
reasonable time to elapse, I saw there was no getting over the
difficulty, and began to remove the last article of my daily apparel.
Doubtless she had long foreseen that it would eventually come to that.
In a very accommodating manner, she took a position directly in front,
and beckoned to me to elevate one of my legs, an order which I
naturally obeyed. Then she seized hold of the pendent casimere and
dragged away with a hearty good-will. I was quickly reduced to my
natural state with the exception of a pair of drawers, which, to my
horror, I discovered were in a very ragged condition, owing to the
roughness of my travels in this wild region. However, by an adroit
movement I whirled into bed, and the young woman covered me up and
wished me a good night's sleep. I thanked her very cordially, and so
ended this strange and rather awkward adventure.
[Illustration: AN AWKWARD PREDICAMENT.]
Such primitive scenes are to be found only in the interior. In the
towns the women are in dress and manners very like their sisters
elsewhere. Hoops and crinoline are frequently to be seen not only
among the Danes, who, as a matter of course, import them from
Copenhagen, but among the native women, who can see no good reason why
they should not be as much like pyramids or Jokuls as others of their
sex. Bonnets and inverted pudding-bowls are common on the heads of the
Reykjavik ladies, though as yet they have not found their way into the
interior. All who can afford it indulge in a profusion of
jewelry--silver clasps, breast-pins, tassel-bands, etc., and various
articles of filigree made by native artists. These feminine traits I
had not expected to find so fully developed in so out-of-the-way a
country. But where is it that lovely woman will not make herself still
more captivating? I once saw in Madagascar a belle of the first rank,
as black as the ace of spades, and greased all over cocoa-nut oil,
commit great havoc among her admirers by a necklace of shark's teeth
and a pair of brass anklets, and nothing else. The rest of her
costume, with a trifling exception, was purely imaginary; yet she was
as vain of her superior style, and put on as many fine airs, as the
most fashionable lady in any civilized country. After all, what is the
difference between a finely-dressed savage and a finely-dressed
Parisian? None at all that I can see, save in the color of the skin
and the amount of labor performed by the manufacturer, the milliner,
the tailor, or the schoolmaster. Intrinsically the constitution of the
mind is identically the same. I speak now of men as well as women, for
the most affected creatures I have seen in Europe are of the male sex.
So pardon me, fair ladies, for any reflection upon your crinoline, and
accept as my apology this candid avowal--that while you are naturally
angelic, and always beautiful beyond comparison, in spite of what you
do to disfigure your lovely persons, we men are naturally savages, and
are driven to the barbarous expedient of adorning and beautifying our
ugly bodies with gewgaws, tinsel, and jimcrackery, in order that they
may be acceptable in your eyes.
On my return to Reykjavik I found that the steamer was to sail next
day. I was very anxious to visit Mount Hecla, but my time and means
were limited, and would not permit of a farther sojourn in this
interesting land. It was a great satisfaction to have seen any thing
of it at all; and if I have given the reader even a slight glimpse of
its wonders, my trip has not been entirely unsuccessful.
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Examiner_ (Boston).
This work bears on its face the evidences of scholarship and research.
The arrangement is clear and effective; the style energetic, lively,
and often brilliant. * * * Mr. Motley's instructive volumes will, we
trust, have a circulation commensurate with their interest and
value.--_Protestant Episcopal Quarterly Review._
To the illustration of this most interesting period Mr. Motley has
brought the matured powers of a vigorous and brilliant mind, and the
abundant fruits of patient and judicious study and deep reflection.
The result is, one of the most important contributions to historical
literature that have been made in this country.--_North American
Review._
We would conclude this notice by earnestly recommending our readers to
procure for themselves this truly great and admirable work, by the
production of which the author has conferred no less honor upon his
country than he has won praise and fame for himself, and than which,
we can assure them, they can find nothing more attractive or
interesting within the compass of modern literature.--_Evangelical
Review._
It is not often that we have the pleasure of commending to the
attention of the lover of books a work of such extraordinary and
unexceptionable excellence as this one.--_Universalist Quarterly
Review._
There are an elevation and a classic polish in these volumes, and a
felicity of grouping and of portraiture, which invest the subject with
the attractions of a living and stirring episode in the grand historic
drama.--_Southern Methodist Quarterly Review._
The author writes with a genial glow and love of his
subject.--_Presbyterian Quarterly Review._
Mr. Motley is a sturdy Republican and a hearty Protestant. His style
is lively and picturesque, and his work is an honor and an important
accession to our national literature.--_Church Review._
Mr. Motley's work is an important one, the result of profound
research, sincere convictions, sound principles, and manly sentiments;
and even those who are most familiar with the history of the period
will find it a fresh and vivid addition to their previous knowledge.
It does honor to American Literature, and would do honor to the
literature of any country in the world.--_Edinburgh Review._
A serious chasm in English historical literature has been (by this
book) very remarkably filled. * * * A history as complete as industry
and genius can make it now lies before us, of the first twenty years
of the revolt of the United Provinces. * * * All the essentials of a
great writer Mr. Motley eminently possesses. His mind is broad, his
industry unwearied. In power of dramatic description no modern
historian, except, perhaps, Mr. Carlyle, surpasses him, and in
analysis of character he is elaborate and distinct.--_Westminster
Review._
It is a work of real historical value, the result of accurate
criticism, written in a liberal spirit, and from first to last deeply
interesting.--_Athenæum._
The style is excellent, clear, vivid, eloquent; and the industry with
which original sources have been investigated, and through which new
light has been shed over perplexed incidents and characters, entitles
Mr. Motley to a high rank in the literature of an age peculiarly rich
in history.--_North British Review._
It abounds in new information, and, as a first work, commands a very
cordial recognition, not merely of the promise it gives, but of the
extent and importance of the labor actually performed on it.--_London
Examiner._
Mr. Motley's "History" is a work of which any country might be
proud.--_Press_ (London).
Mr. Motley's History will be a standard book of reference in
historical literature.--_London Literary Gazette._
Mr. Motley has searched the whole range of historical documents
necessary to the composition of his work.--_London Leader._
This is a really great work. It belongs to the class of books in
which we range our Grotes, Milmans, Merivales, and Macaulays, as the
glories of English literature in the department of history. * * * Mr.
Motley's gifts as a historical writer are among the highest and
rarest.--_Nonconformist_ (London).
Mr. Motley's volumes will well repay perusal. * * * For his learning,
his liberal tone, and his generous enthusiasm, we heartily commend
him, and bid him good speed for the remainder of his interesting and
heroic narrative.--_Saturday Review._
The story is a noble one, and is worthily treated. * * * Mr. Motley has
had the patience to unravel, with unfailing perseverance, the thousand
intricate plots of the adversaries of the Prince of Orange; but the
details and the literal extracts which he has derived from original
documents, and transferred to his pages, give a truthful color and a
picturesque effect, which are especially charming.--_London Daily
News._
M. Lothrop Motley dans son magnifique tableau de la formation de notre
République.--G. Groen Van Prinsterer.
Our accomplished countryman, Mr. J. Lothrop Motley, who, during the
last five years, for the better prosecution of his labors, has
established his residence in the neighborhood of the scenes of his
narrative. No one acquainted with the fine powers of mind possessed by
this scholar, and the earnestness with which he has devoted himself to
the task, can doubt that he will do full justice to his important but
difficult subject.--W. H. Prescott.
The production of such a work as this astonishes, while it gratifies
the pride of the American reader.--_N. Y. Observer._
The "Rise of the Dutch Republic" at once, and by acclimation, takes
its place by the "Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire," as a work
which, whether for research, substance, or style, will never be
superseded.--_N. Y. Albion._
A work upon which all who read the English language may congratulate
themselves.--_New Yorker Handels Zeitung._
Mr. Motley's place is now (alluding to this book) with Hallam and Lord
Mahon, Alison and Macaulay in the Old Country, and with Washington
Irving, Prescott, and Bancroft in this.--_N. Y. Times._
The authority, in the English tongue, for the history of the period
and people to which it refers.--_N. Y. Courier and Enquirer._
This work at once places the author on the list of American historians
which has been so signally illustrated by the names of Irving,
Prescott, Bancroft, and Hildreth.--_Boston Times._
The work is a noble one, and a most desirable acquisition to our
historical literature.--_Mobile Advertiser._
Such a work is an honor to its author, to his country, and to the age
in which it was written.--_Ohio Farmer._
_Published by HARPER & BROTHERS, Franklin Square, New York._
HARPER & BROTHERS will send the above Work by Mail postage paid (for
any distance in the United States under 3000 miles), on receipt of the
Money.
_Mr. Motley, the American historian of the United Netherlands--we owe
him English homage._--LONDON TIMES.
"_As interesting as a romance, and as reliable as a proposition of
Euclid._"
History of The United Netherlands.
FROM THE DEATH OF WILLIAM THE SILENT TO THE SYNOD OF DORT. WITH A FULL
VIEW OF THE ENGLISH-DUTCH STRUGGLE AGAINST SPAIN, AND OF THE ORIGIN
AND DESTRUCTION OF THE SPANISH ARMADA.
BY JOHN LOTHROP MOTLEY, LL.D., D.C.L.,
Corresponding Member of the Institute of France, Author of "The Rise
of the Dutch Republic."
With Portraits and Map.
2 vols. 8vo, Muslin, $6 00.
_Critical Notices._
His living and truthful picture of events.--_Quarterly Review_
(London), Jan., 1861.
Fertile as the present age has been in historical works of the highest
merit, none of them can be ranked above these volumes in the grand
qualities of interest, accuracy, and truth.--_Edinburgh Quarterly
Review_, Jan., 1861.
This noble work.--_Westminster Review_ (London).
One of the most fascinating as well as important histories of the
century.--_Cor. N. Y. Evening Post._
The careful study of these volumes will infallibly afford a feast both
rich and rare.--_Baltimore Republican._
Already takes a rank among standard works of history.--_London
Critic._
Mr. Motley's prose epic.--_London Spectator._
Its pages are pregnant with instruction.--_London Literary Gazette._
We may profit by almost every page of his narrative. All the topics
which agitate us now are more or less vividly presented in the History
of the United Netherlands.--_New York Times._
Bears on every page marks of the same vigorous mind that produced "The
Rise of the Dutch Republic;" but the new work is riper, mellower, and
though equally racy of the soil, softer flavored. The inspiring idea
which breathes through Mr. Motley's histories and colors the whole
texture of his narrative, is the grandeur of that memorable struggle
in the 16th century by which the human mind broke the thraldom of
religious intolerance and achieved its independence.--_The World,
N. Y._
The name of Motley now stands in the very front rank of living
historians. His _Dutch Republic_ took the world by surprise; but the
favorable verdict then given is now only the more deliberately
confirmed on the publication of the continued story under the title of
the _History of the United Netherlands_. All the nerve, and power, and
substance of juicy life are there, lending a charm to every
page.--_Church Journal, N. Y._
Motley indeed, has produced a prose epic, and his fighting scenes are
as real, spirited, and life-like as the combats in the Iliad.--_The
Press_ (Phila.).
His history is as interesting as a romance, and as reliable as a
proposition of Euclid. Clio never had a more faithful disciple. We
advise every reader whose means will permit to become the owner of
these fascinating volumes, assuring him that he will never regret the
investment.--_Christian Intelligencer, N. Y._
Published by HARPER & BROTHERS, Franklin Square, New York.
--> HARPER & BROTHERS will send the above Work by Mail, postage
prepaid (for any distance in the United States under 3000 miles), on
receipt of the Money.
BY MRS. GASKELL.
CRANFORD. 16mo, Cloth, $1 25.
COUSIN PHILLIS. 8vo, Paper, 25 cents.
A DARK NIGHT'S WORK. 8vo, Paper, 50 cents.
MARY BARTON. A Tale of Manchester Life. 8vo, Paper, 50 cents.
THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 16mo, Cloth, 75 cents.
MY LADY LUDLOW. 8vo, Paper, 25 cents.
NORTH AND SOUTH. 8vo, Paper, 50 cents.
RIGHT AT LAST, and Other Tales. 12mo. Cloth, $1 50.
SYLVIA'S LOVERS. 8vo, Paper, 75 cents.
WIVES AND DAUGHTERS. With Illustrations. 8vo, Cloth, $2 00; Paper,
$1 50.
_From the London Examiner._
That tender pathos, which could sink so deep--that gentle humor, which
could soar so lightly--that delicate perception, which nothing could
escape--that wide sympathy, which ranged so far--those sweet
moralities, which rang so true; it is indeed hard and sad to feel that
these must be silent for us henceforth forever.
Let us be grateful, however, that we have still those writings of hers
which England will not willingly let die, and that she has given us no
less an example of conscientious work and careful pains, by which we
all alike may profit. For Mrs. Gaskell had not only genius of a high
order, but she had also the true feeling of the artist, that grows
impatient at whatever is unfinished or imperfect. Whether describing
with touching skill the charities of poor to poor, or painting, with
an art which Miss Austin might have envied, the daily round of common
life, or merely telling, in her graphic way, some wild or simple tale:
whatever the work, she did it with all her power, sparing nothing,
scarcely sparing herself enough, if only the work were well and
completely done.
_From the New York Evening Post._
It is said that George Sand remarked to an English friend: "Mrs.
Gaskell has done what neither I nor other female writers in France can
accomplish--she has written novels which excite the deepest interest
in men of the world, and which every girl will be the better for
reading."
Published by HARPER & BROTHERS, New York.
--> _Sent by Mail to any part of the United States, postage free, on
receipt of the Price._
Transcriber's Note
Minor typographic errors in punctuation and spelling (omitted or
transposed letters, etc.) have been repaired. Hyphenation has been
made consistent where there was a prevalence of one form over another.
Archaic and variant spelling has been preserved as printed, where
reference to the alternate spelling could be established from other
sources, e.g. the Frith of Forth, gambling-hells, feed referring to
the paying of a fee. If alternate spelling of proper nouns could not
be established, it has been made consistent within the text. The
spelling of other words and phrases in languages other than English
has been preserved as printed.
Illustrations have been moved if necessary so that they were not in
the middle of a paragraph.
A small pointing hand symbol is used in two places, and has been
rendered as --> in this e-text.
*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "The Land of Thor" ***
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