"It was on a bright July morning that I found myself whirled away
by railroad from Berlin, 'that great ostrich egg in the sand,'
which the sun of civilization is said to have hatched."
In these words, and with this somewhat far-fetched simile, does a German
tourist, Edward Boas by name, commence his narrative of a recent
pilgrimage to the far north. Undeterred by the disadvantageous accounts
given of those regions by a traveller who had shortly before visited
them, and unseduced by the allurements of more southerly climes, he
boldly sets forth to breast the mountains and brave the blasts of
Scandinavia, and to form his own judgment of the country and its
inhabitants. Almost, however, before putting foot on Scandinavian
ground, Mr Boas, who, as a traveller, is decidedly of the gossiping and
inquisitive class, fills three chapters with all manner of pleasant
chatter about himself, and his feelings, and his fancies, and the
travelling companions he meets with. His liveliness and versatility, and
a certain bantering satirical vein, in which he occasionally indulges,
would have caused us to take his work, had we met with it in an English
translation, for the production of a French rather than a German pen.
Leaving the railway at Angermunde, our traveller continues his journey
by the mail, in which he has two companions; a lady, "with an arm like
ivory," about whom he seems more than half inclined to build up a little
episodical romance, and a young man from the neighbouring town of
Pasewalk, "on whose thick lips," we are informed, "the genius of
stupidity seemed to have established its throne." This youth expressed
his great regret that the good old customs of Germany had become
obsolete, and expatiated on the necessity of striving to restore them.
"Those were fine times," he said, "when nobles made war on their own
account, burned down the villages, and drove the cattle of the peasants
on each other's territory. To themselves personally, however, they did
no harm; and if by chance Ritter Jobst fell into the hands of Ritter
Kurt, the latter would say, 'Ritter Jobst, you are my prisoner on
parole, and must pay me a ransom of five hundred thalers.' And thereupon
they passed their time right joyously together, drinking and hunting the
livelong day. But Ritter Jobst wrote to his seneschal that, by fair
means or foul, he must squeeze the five hundred thalers out of his
subjects, who were in duty bound to pay, to enable their gracious lord
to return home again. Those were the times," concluded the young
Pasewalker, "and of such times should I like to witness the return."
Now, Mr Boas considerably disapproved of these aspirations after the
days of the robber knights, and he accordingly, to avoid hearing any
more of them, took a nap in his corner, which helped him on nearly to
Stralsund.
"This city," he says, "has acquired an undeserved renown through
Wallenstein's famous vow, 'to have it, though it were hung from heaven
by chains.' This puts me in mind of the trick of a reviewer who, by
enormous and exaggerated praise, induces us to read the stupid literary
production of some dear friend of his own. We take up the book with
great expectations, and find it--trash. It is easy to see that Stralsund
was founded by a set of dirty fish-dealers. Clumsy, gable-ended houses,
streets narrow and crooked, a wretched pavement--such is the city. A
small road along the shore, encumbered with timber, old casks, filth and
rubbish--such is the quay."
In this uninteresting place, Mr Boas is compelled to pass
eight-and-forty hours, waiting for a steamer. He fills up the time with
a little dissertation on Swedish and Pomeranian dialects, and with a
comical legend about a greedy monk, who bartered his soul to the devil
for a platter of lampreys. By a stratagem of the abbot's, Satan was
outwitted; and, taking himself off in a great rage, he dropped the
lampreys in the lake of Madue, near Stargard, where to this day they
are found in as great perfection as in the lakes of Italy and
Switzerland. This peculiarity, however, might be accounted for otherwise
than by infernal means, for Frederick the Great was equally successful
in introducing the sturgeon of the Wolga into Pomeranian waters, where
it is still to be met with.
A day's sail brings our traveller to the port of Ystad, where he
receives his first impressions of Sweden, which are decidedly
favourable. At sunrise the next morning he goes on board the steamer
Svithiod, bound from Lubeck to Stockholm. At the same time with himself
are shipped three wandering Tyrolese musicians, who are proceeding
northwards to give the Scandinavians a taste of their mountain melodies,
and two or three hundred pigs, all pickled; the pigs, that is to say. He
finds on board a numerous and agreeable society, of which and of the
passage he gives a graphic description.
"The ship's bell rang to summon us to breakfast. There is a certain epic
copiousness about a Swedish _frukost_. On first getting up in the
morning it is customary to take a _Kop caffe med skorpor_, a cup of
coffee and a biscuit, and in something less than two hours later one
sits down to a most abundant meal. This commences with a _sup_, that is
to say, a glass of carraway or aniseed brandy; then come tea, bread and
butter, ham, sausage, cheese and beer; and the whole winds up with a
warm _Kötträtt_, a beefsteak or cutlet."
Truly a solid and savoury repast. Whilst discussing it in the cabin of
the Svithiod, Mr Boas makes acquaintance with his fellow-voyagers.
"At the top of the table sat our captain, a jovial pleasant man. He
was very attentive to the passengers, had a prompt and friendly
answer to every question; in short, he was a Swede all over. Near
him were placed the families of two clergymen, in whose charge was
also travelling a young Swedish countess, a charming,
innocent-looking child, whose large dark eyes seemed destined, at
no very distant period, to give more than one heartache. Beside
them was a tall man, plainly dressed, and of military appearance.
This was Count S----, (Schwerin, probably,) a descendant of that
friend and lieutenant of Frederick the Great who, on the 6th May
1757, purchased with his life the victory of Prague. He was
returning from the hay-harvest on those estates which had belonged
to his valiant forefather, whose heirs had long been kept out of
them for lack of certain documents. But Frederick William III.
said, 'Right is right, though wax and parchment be not there to
prove it;' and he restored to the family their property, which is
worth half-a-million.
"The Count's neighbour was Fru Nyberg, a Swedish poetess, who
writes under the name of Euphrosyne. In Germany, nobody troubles
himself about the 'Dikter af Euphrosyne,' but every educated Swede
knows them and their authoress. The latter may once have been
handsome, but wrinkles have now crept in where roses formerly
bloomed. Euphrosyne was born in 1785--authoresses purchase their
fame dearly enough at the price of having their age put down in
every lexicon. A black tulle cap with flame-coloured ribands
covered her head; round her neck she wore a string of large amber
beads, a gold watch-chain, and a velvet riband from which her
eyeglass was suspended. She was quiet, and retiring, spoke little,
and passed the greater portion of the day in the cabin. Fru Nyberg
was returning from Paris, and had with her a young lady of
distinguished family, Emily Holmberg by name. This young person
possesses a splendid musical talent; her compositions are
remarkable for charming originality, and are so much the more
prized that the muse of Harmony has hitherto been but niggard of
her gifts to the sons and daughters of Sweden. There was something
particularly delicate and fairy-like in the whole appearance of
this maiden, whose long curls floated round her transparent white
temples, while her soft dove-like eyes had a sweet and slightly
melancholy expression.
"Next to Miss Holmberg, there sat a handsome young man, in a sort
of loose caftan of green velvet. His name was Baron R----, and he
was a descendant of the man who cast lots with Ankarström and
Horn, which of them should kill the King. He had formerly been one
of the most noted lions and _viveurs_ of Stockholm, but had
latterly taken to himself a beautiful wife, and had become a more
settled character; though his exuberant spirits and love of
enjoyment still remained, and rendered him the gayest and most
agreeable of travelling companions. Nagel, the celebrated violin
player, and his lively little wife, were also among the passengers.
They were returning from America, where he had been exchanging his
silvery notes against good gold coin. Nagel is a Jew by birth, a
most accomplished man, speaking seven languages with equal
elegance, and much esteemed in the musical circles of Stockholm."
A young Swedish woman, named Maria, whose affecting little history Mr
Boas learns and tells us--an Englishman--"a thorough Englishman, who, as
long as he was eating, had no eyes or ears for any thing else," and a
French _commis voyageur_, travelling to get orders for coloured papers,
champagne, and silk goods, completed the list of all those of the party
who were any way worthy of mention. The Frenchman, Monsieur Robineau by
name, had a little ugly face, nearly hidden by an enormous beard, wore a
red cap upon his head, and looked altogether like a bandy-legged brownie
or gnome. The scene at daybreak the next morning is described with some
humour.
"A dull twilight reigned in the cabin, the lamp was burning low and
threatening to go out, the first glimmer of day was stealing in
through the windows, and the Englishman had struck a light in order
to shave himself. From each berth some different description of
noise was issuing; the Lubecker was snoring loudly, Baron R---- was
twanging a guitar, Monsieur Robineau singing a barcarole, and every
body was calling out as loud as he could for something or other.
Karl, the steward, was rushing up and down the cabin, so confused
by the fifty different demands addressed to him, that he knew not
how to comply with any one of them.
"'Karl, clean my boots!'
"'Ja, Herr.'
"'Karl, some warm water and a towel.'
"'Ja, Herr.'
"'_Amis, la matinée est belle! Sur le rivage
assemblez-vouz!_--Karl, the coffee!--_conduis ta barque avec
prudence! Pêcheur, parle bas!_ ... Karl, the coffee!'
"'Ja, Herr.'
"'Karl, my carpet-bag!'
"'Karl, are you deaf? Did you not hear me ask for warm water?'
"'Ja, Herr.'
"'_Jette tes filets en silence! Pêcheur, parle bas!_--Coffee,
coffee, coffee!--_Le roi des mers ne t'échappera pas!_'
"'Ja, Herr.'
"'Karl, look at these boots! You must clean them again.'
"'No, you must first find my carpet-bag.'
"'Karl, you good-for-nothing fellow, if you do not bring me the
water immediately, I will complain to the captain.'
"'_Pêcheur, parle bas! Conduis ta barque avec prudence!_ ... Karl,
the coffee, or by my beard I will have you impaled as soon as I am
Emperor of Turkey!'
"'Ja Herr! Ja, Herr! Ja, Herr!'"
Aided by the various talents and eccentricities of the passengers, by
the grimaces of the Frenchman, and the songs of the Tyrolese minstrels,
the time passed pleasantly enough; till, on the morning of the third day
after leaving Ystad, the Svithiod was at the entrance of Lake Maeler,
opposite the fortress of Waxholm, which presents more of a picturesque
than of an imposing appearance.
"It consists of a few loopholed parapets and ramparts, and of a
strong round tower of grey stone, looking very romantic but not
very formidable, and nevertheless entirely commanding the narrow
passage. A sentry, wrapped in his cloak, stood upon the wall and
hailed us through a speaking-trumpet. At the very moment that the
captain was about to answer, another steamer came round a bend of
the channel, meeting the Svithiod point-blank. The sentinel
impatiently repeated his summons, and for a moment there appeared
to be some danger of our either running foul of the other boat, or
getting a shot in our hull from the fort. They do not understand
joking at Waxholm, as was learned a short time since to his cost by
the commander of the Russian steamer Ischora, who did not reply
when summoned. Hastily furnishing the required information to the
castle, our captain shouted out the needful orders to his crew, and
we passed on in safety.
"The steamer which we now met bore the Swedish flag, and was
conveying the Crown Prince Oscar (the grandson of a lawyer and a
silk-mercer) and his wife, to Germany. They had left Stockholm in
the night time, to avoid all public ceremony and formality. A crowd
of artillerymen now lined the walls of Waxholm to give the usual
salute, and we could hear the booming of the guns long after we
were out of sight of ship and fort. In another hour I obtained my
first view of Stockholm."
Stockholm, the Venice of the North, has been thought by many travellers
to present a more striking _coup-d'oeil_ than any other European
capital, Constantinople excepted. Built upon seven islands, formed by
inlets of the sea and the Maeler Lake, it spreads over a surface very
large in proportion to the number of its houses and inhabitants, and
exhibits a singular mixture of streets, squares, and churches, with
rock, wood, and water. The ground on which it stands is uneven, and in
many places declivitous; the different parts of the city are connected
by bridges, and on every side is seen the fresh green foliage of the
north. The natural canals which intersect Stockholm are of great depth,
and ships of large burden are enabled to penetrate into the very heart
of the town. The general style of building offers little to admire; the
houses being for the most part flat-fronted, monotonous, and graceless,
without any species of architectural decoration to relieve their
inelegant uniformity. It is the position of the city, the air of
lightness given to it by the water, which traverses it in every
direction, and the life and movement of the port, that form its chief
recommendations. In their architectural ideas the Swedes appear to be
entirely utilitarian, disdainful of ornament; and if a house of more
modern and tasteful build, with windows of a handsome size, cornices,
and entablatures, is here and there to be met with, it is almost certain
to have been erected by Germans or some other foreigners. The royal
palace, of which the first stone was laid in the reign of Charles XII.,
is a well-conceived and finely executed work; some of the churches are
also worthy of notice; but most of the public buildings derive their
chief interest, like the squares and market-places, from their
antiquity, or from historical associations connected with them. Few
cities offer richer stores to the lovers of the romance of history
than does the capital of Sweden. One edifice alone, the
Ritterhaus--literally, the House of Knights or Lords--in which the
Swedish nobility were wont to hold their Diets, would furnish
subject-matter for a score of romances. Not a door nor a window, scarce
a stone in the building, but tells of some sanguinary feud, or fierce
insurrection of the populace, in the troublous days of Sweden. From
floor to ceiling of the great hall in which the Diet held its sittings,
hang the coats of arms of Swedish counts, barons, and noblemen. A solemn
gloomy light pervades the apartment, and unites with the grave
black-blue coverings of the seats and balustrades, to convey the idea
that this is no arena for showy shallow orators, but a place in which
stern truth and naked reality have been wont to prevail. The chair of
Gustavus Vasa, of inlaid ivory, and covered with purple velvet, stands
in this room.
Mr Boas, the pages of whose book are thickly strewn with legends and
historical anecdotes, many of them interesting, devotes a chapter to the
Ritterhaus and its annals. One tragical history, connected with that
building, appears worthy of extraction:
"One of the chief favourites of Gustavus III. was Count Armfelt, a
young man of illustrious family, and of unusual mental and personal
accomplishments. At an early age he entered the royal guards, and
proved, during the war with Russia, that his courage in the field
fully equalled his more courtierlike merits. He rapidly ascended in
military grade, and, finally, the king appointed him governor of
Stockholm, and named him President of the Council of Regency,
which, in case of his death, was to govern Sweden during the
minority of the heir to the throne. Shortly after these dignities
had been conferred upon Armfelt, occurred the famous masquerade and
the assassination of Gustavus.
"Upon this event happening, a written will of the king's was
produced, of more recent date than the appointment of the Count,
and, according to which, the guardianship of the Prince Royal was
to devolve upon Duke Karl Sundermanland, the brother of Gustavus.
This was a weak, sensual, and vindictive prince, of limited
capacity, and easily led by flattery and deceit. He belonged to a
secret society, of which Baron Reuterholm was grand-master. A
couple of mysterious and well-managed apparitions were sufficient
to terrify the duke, and render him ductile as wax. The most
implicit submission was required of him, and soon the crafty
Reuterholm got the royal authority entirely into his own hands.
There was discontent and murmuring amongst the true friends of the
royal family, but Reuterholm's spies were ubiquitous, and a
frowning brow or dissatisfied look was punished as a crime. Amongst
others, Count Armfelt, who took no pains to conceal his indignation
at the scandalous proceedings of those in power, was stripped of
his offices, and ordered to set out immediately as ambassador to
Naples.
"This command fell like a thunderbolt upon the head of the Count,
whom every public and private consideration combined to retain in
Stockholm. Loath as he was to leave his country an undisputed prey
to the knaves into whose hands it had fallen, he was perhaps still
more unwilling to abandon one beloved being to the snares and
dangers of a sensual and corrupt court.
"It was on a September evening of the year 1792, and the light of
the moon fell cold and clear upon the white houses of Stockholm,
though the streets that intersected their masses were plunged in
deep shadow, when a man, muffled in a cloak, and evidently desirous
of avoiding observation, was seen making his way hastily through
the darkest and least frequented lanes of that city. Stopping at
last, he knocked thrice against a window-shutter; an adjacent door
was opened at the signal, and he passed through a corridor into a
cheerful and well-lighted apartment. Throwing off his cloak, he
received and returned the affectionate greeting of a beautiful
woman, who advanced with outstretched hand to meet him. The
stranger was Count Armfelt--the lady, Miss Rudenskjöld--the most
charming of the court beauties of the day. The colour left her
cheek when she perceived the uneasiness of her lover; but when he
told her of the orders he had received, her head sank upon his
breast, and her large blue eyes swam in tears. Recovering, however,
from this momentary depression, she vowed to remain ever true to
her country and her love. The Count echoed the vow, and a kiss
sealed the compact. The following morning a ship sailed from
Stockholm, bearing the new ambassador to Naples.
"Scarcely had Armfelt departed, when Duke Karl began to persecute
Miss Rudenskjöld with his addresses. At first he endeavoured, by
attention and flatteries, to win her favour; but her avoidance of
his advances and society increased the violence of his passion,
until at last he spoke his wishes with brutal frankness. With
maidenly pride and dignity, the lady repelled his suit, and
severely stigmatized his insolence. Foaming with rage, the duke
left her presence, and from that moment his love was exchanged for
a deadly hatred.
"Baron Reuterholm had witnessed with pleasure the growth of the
regent's passion for the beautiful Miss Rudenskjöld; for he knew
that the more pursuits Duke Karl had to occupy and amuse him, the
more undivided would be his own sway. It was with great
dissatisfaction, therefore, that he received an account of the
contemptuous manner in which the proud girl had treated her royal
admirer. The latter insisted upon revenge, full and complete
revenge, and Reuterholm promised that he should have it. Miss
Rudenskjöld's life was so blameless, and her conduct in every
respect so correct, that it seemed impossible to invent any charge
against her; but Reuterholm set spies to work, and spies will
always discover something. They found out that she kept up a
regular correspondence with Count Armfelt. Their letters were
opened, and evidence found in them of a plan to declare the young
prince of age, or at least to abstract Duke Karl from the
corrupting influence of Reuterholm. The angry feelings entertained
by the latter personage towards Miss Rudenskjöld were increased
tenfold by this discovery, and he immediately had her thrown into
prison. She was brought to trial before a tribunal composed of
creatures of the baron, and including the Chancellor Sparre, a man
of unparalleled cunning and baseness, than whom Satan himself could
have selected no better advocate. During her examination, Fraulein
von Rudenskjöld was most cruelly treated, and the words of the
correspondence were distorted, with infamous subtlety, into
whatever construction best suited her accusers. Sparre twisted his
physiognomy, which in character partook of that of the dog and the
serpent, into a thoughtful expression, and regretted that,
according to the Swedish laws, the offence of which Miss
Rudenskjöld was found guilty, could not be punished by the lash.
The pillory, and imprisonment in the Zuchthaus, the place of
confinement for the most guilty and abandoned of her sex, formed
the scarce milder sentence pronounced upon the unfortunate victim.
"It was early on an autumn morning--a thick canopy of grey clouds
overspread the heavens--and the dismal half-light which prevailed
in the streets of Stockholm made it difficult to decide whether or
not the sun had yet risen. A cold wind blew across from Lake
Maeler, and caused the few persons who had as yet left their houses
to hasten their steps along the deserted pavement. Suddenly a
detachment of soldiers arrived upon the square in front of the
Ritterhaus, and took up their station beside the pillory. The
officer commanding the party was a slender young man of agreeable
countenance; but he was pale as death, and his voice trembled as he
gave the words of command. The prison-gate now opened, and Miss
Rudenskjöld came forth, escorted by several jailers. Her cheeks
were whiter than the snow-white dress she wore; her limbs trembled;
her long hair hung in wild dishevelment over her shoulders, and yet
was she beautiful--beautiful as a fading rose. They led her up the
steps of the pillory, and the executioner's hand was already
stretched out to bind her to the ignominious post, when she cast a
despairing glance upon the bystanders, as though seeking aid. As
she did so, a shrill scream of agony burst from her lips. She had
recognised in the young officer her own dearly-loved brother, who,
by a devilish refinement of cruelty, had been appointed to command
the guard that was to attend at her punishment.
"Strong in her innocence, the delicate and gently-nurtured girl had
borne up against all her previous sufferings; but this was too
much. Her senses left her, and she fell fainting to the ground. Her
brother also swooned away, and never recovered his unclouded
reason. To his dying day his mind remained gloomy and unsettled.
The very executioners refused to inflict further indignity on the
senseless girl, and she was conducted back to her dungeon, where
she soon recovered all the firmness which she had already displayed
before her infamous judges.
"Meanwhile Armfelt was exposed in Italy to the double danger of
secret assassination, and of a threatened requisition from the
Swedish government for him to be delivered up. He sought safety in
flight, and found an asylum in Germany. His estates were
confiscated, his titles, honours, and nobility declared forfeit,
and he himself was condemned by default as a traitor to his
country."
Concerning the ultimate fate of this luckless pair of lovers, Mr Boas
deposeth not, but passes on to an account of the disturbances in 1810,
when the Swedish marshal, Count Axel Fersen, suspected by the populace
as cause of the sudden death of the Crown Prince, Charles Augustus, was
attacked, while following the body of the prince through the streets of
Stockholm. He was sitting in full uniform in his carriage, drawn by six
milk-white horses, when he was assailed with showers of stones, from
which he took refuge in a house upon the Ritterhaustmarkt. In spite of
the exertions of General Silversparre, at the head of some dragoons, the
mob broke into the house, and entered the room in which Fersen was. He
folded his hands, and begged for mercy, protesting his innocence. But
his entreaties were in vain. A broad-shouldered fellow, a shopkeeper,
named Lexow, tore off his orders, sword, and cloak, and threw them
through the window to the rioters, who with furious shouts reduced them
to fragments. Silversparre then proposed to take the count to prison,
and have him brought to trial in due form. But, on the way thither, the
crowd struck and ill-treated the old man; and, although numerous troops
were now upon the spot, these remained with shouldered arms, and even
their officers forbade their interference. They appeared to be there to
attend an execution rather than to restore order. The mob dragged the
unfortunate Fersen to the foot of Gustavus Vasa's statue, and there beat
and ill-treated him till he died. It was remarked of the foremost and
most eager of his persecutors, that although dressed as common sailors,
their hands were white and delicate, and linen of fine texture peeped
betrayingly forth from under their coarse outer garments. Doubtless more
than one long-standing hatred was on that day gratified. It was still
borne in mind, that Count Fersen's father had been the chief instrument
in bringing Count Eric Brahe, and several other nobles, to the scaffold,
upon the very spot where, half a century later, his son's blood was
poured out.
The murder of the Count-Marshal was followed by an attack upon the house
of his sister, the Countess Piper; but she had had timely notice, and
escaped by water to Waxholm. Several officers of rank, who strove to
pacify the mob, were abused, and even beaten; until at length a combat
ensued between the troops and the people, and lasted till nightfall,
when an end was put to it by a heavy fall of rain. The number of killed
and wounded on that day could never be ascertained.
These incidents are striking and dramatic--fine stuff for novel writers,
as Mr Boas says--but we will turn to less sanguinary subjects. In a
letter to a female friend, who is designated by the fanciful name of
Eglantine, we have a sketch of the present state of Swedish poetry and
literature. According to the account here given us, Olof von Dalin, who
was born in Holland in 1763, was the first to awaken in the Swedes a
real and correct taste for the _belles lettres_. This he did in great
measure by the establishment of a periodical called the _Argus_. He
improved the style of prose writing, and produced some poetry, which
latter appears, however, to have been generally more remarkable for
sweetness than power. We have not space to follow Mr Boas through his
gallery of Swedish _literati_, but we will extract what he says
concerning three authoresses, whose works, highly popular in their own
country and in Germany, have latterly attracted some attention in
England. These are--Miss Bremer, Madame Flygare-Carlén, and the Baroness
Knorring, the delineators of domestic, rural, and aristocratic life in
Sweden.
"Frederica Bremer was born in the year 1802. After the death of her
father, a rich merchant and proprietor of mines, she resided at
Schonen, and subsequently with a female friend in Norway. She now
lives with her mother and sister alternately in the Norrlands
Gatan, at Stockholm, or at their country seat at Arsta. If I were
to talk to you about Miss Bremer's romances, you would laugh at me,
for you are doubtless ten times better acquainted with them than I
am. But you are curious, perhaps, to learn something about her
appearance, and _that_ I can tell you.
"You will not expect to hear that Miss Bremer, a maiden lady of
forty, retains a very large share of youthful bloom; but,
independently of that, she is really any thing but handsome. Her
thin wrinkled physiognomy is, however, rendered agreeable by its
good-humoured expression, and her meagre figure has the benefit of
a neat and simple style of dress. From the style of her writings, I
used always to take her to be a governess; and she looks exactly
like one. She knows that she is not handsome, and on that account
has always refused to have her portrait taken; the one they sell of
her in Germany is a counterfeit, the offspring of an artist's
imagination, stimulated by speculative book-sellers. This summer,
there was a quizzing paragraph in one of the Swedish papers, saying
that a painter had been sent direct from America to Rome and
Stockholm, to take portraits of the Pope and of Miss Bremer.
"In Sweden, the preference is given to her romance of _Hemmet_,
(Home,) over all her other works. Any thing like a bold originality
of invention she is generally admitted to lack, but she is skilled
in throwing a poetical charm over the quiet narrow circle of
domestic life. She is almost invariably successful in her female
characters, but when she attempts to draw those of men, her
creations are mere caricatures, full of emptiness and
improbability. Her habit of indulging in a sort of aimless and
objectless philosophizing vein, _à propos_ of nothing at all, is
also found highly wearisome. For my part, it has often given me an
attack of nausea. She labours, however, diligently to improve
herself; and, when I saw her, she had just been ordering at a
bookseller's two German works--Bossen's _Translation of Homer_, and
Creuzer's _Symbolics_.
"Emily Flygare is about thirty years of age. She is the daughter of
a country clergyman, and has only to write down her own
recollections in order to depict village life, with its pains and
its pleasures. Accordingly, that is her strongest line in
authorship; and her book, _Kyrkoinvigningen_, (the Church
Festival,) has been particularly successful. Married in early life
to an officer, she contracted, after his death, several
engagements, all of which she broke off, whereby her reputation in
some degree suffered. At last she gave her hand to Carlén, a very
middling sort of poet, some years younger than she is; and she now
styles herself--following the example of Madame Birch-Pfeiffer, and
other celebrated singers--Flygare-Carlén. She lives very happily at
Stockholm with her husband, and is at least as good a housewife as
an authoress, not even thinking it beneath her dignity to
superintend the kitchen. Her great modesty as to her own merits,
and the esteem she expresses for her rivals, are much to her
credit. She is a little restless body, and does not like sitting
still. Her countenance is rather pleasing than handsome, and its
charm is heightened by the lively sparkle of her quick dark eyes.
"The third person of the trio is the Baroness Knorring, a very
noble lady, who lives far away from Stockholm, and is married to an
officer. She is between thirty and forty years old, and it is
affirmed that she would be justified in exclaiming with
Wallenstein's Thekla--
'Ich habe gelebt und geliebet.'
She was described to me as nervous and delicate, which is perhaps
the right temperament to enable her accurately to depict in her
romances the strained artificiality and silken softness of
aristocratic existence. Her style also possesses the needful
lightness and grace, and she accordingly succeeds admirably in her
sketches of high life, with all its elegant nullities and
spiritless pomp. One of her best works is the romance of
_Cousinerna_, (The Cousins,) which, as well as the other works of
Knorring, Bremer, and Flygare, has been placed before the German
public by our diligent translators."
Upon the subjects of Swedish society and conversation, Mr Boas is
pleased to be unusually funny. Like the foreigner who asserted that
Goddam was the root of the English language, he seems prepared to
maintain that two monosyllables constitute the essence of the Swedish
tongue, and that they alone are required to carry on an effective and
agreeable dialogue. "It is not at all difficult," he says, "to keep up a
conversation with a Swede, when you are once acquainted with a certain
mystical formula, whereby all emotions and sentiments are to be
expressed, and by the aid of which you may love and hate, curse and
bless, be good-humoured or satirical, and even witty. The mighty and
all-sufficing words are, '_Ja so!_' (Yes, indeed!) usually pronounced
_Jassoh_. It is wonderful to hear the infinite variety of modulation
which a Swede gives to these two insignificant syllables. Does he hear
some agreeable intelligence, he exclaims, with sparkling eyes and brisk
intonation, 'Ja so!' If bad news are brought to him, he droops his head,
and, after a pause, murmurs mournfully, 'Ja so!' The communication of an
important affair is received with a thoughtful 'Ja so!' a joke elicits a
humorous one; an attempt to banter or deceive him is met by a sarcastic
repetition of the same mysterious words.
"A romance might be constructed out of these four letters.
Thus:--Lucy is sitting at her window, when a well-known messenger
brings her a bouquet. She joyfully exclaims, 'Ja so!' and presses
the flowers to her lips. A friend comes in; she shows her the
flowers, and the friend utters an envious 'Ja so!' Soon afterwards
Lucy's lover hears that she is faithless; he gnashes his teeth, and
vociferates a furious 'Ja so!' He writes to tell her that he
despises her, and will never see her again; whereupon she weeps,
and says to herself, between two tears, 'Ja so!' She manages,
however, to see him, and convinces him that she has been
calumniated. He clasps her in his arms, and utters a 'Ja so!'
expressive of entire conviction. Suddenly his brow becomes clouded,
and muttering a meditative 'Ja so!' he remembers that a peremptory
engagement compels him to leave her. He seeks out the man who has
sought to rob him of his mistress, and reproaches him with his
perfidy. This rival replies by a cold, scornful 'Ja so!' and a
meeting is agreed upon. The next day they exchange shots, and I
fully believe that the man who is killed sighs out with his last
breath 'Ja so!' His horror-stricken antagonist exclaims 'Ja so!'
and flies the country; and surgeon, relations, friends, judge, all,
in short, who hear of the affair, will inevitably cry out, 'Ja so!'
Grief and joy, doubt and confidence, jest and anger, are all to be
rendered by those two words."
The province of Dalarna, or Dalecarlia, which lies between Nordland and
the Norwegian frontier, and in which Miss Bremer has laid the scene of
one of her most recent works, is spoken of at some length by Mr Boas,
who considers it to be, in various respects, the most interesting
division of Sweden. Its inhabitants, unable to find means of subsistence
in their own poor and mountainous land, are in the habit of wandering
forth to seek a livelihood in more kindly regions, and Mr Boas likens
them in this respect to the Savoyards. They might, perhaps, be more
aptly compared to the Galicians, who leave their country, not, as many
of the Savoyards do, to become beggars and vagabonds, by the aid of a
marmoset and a grinding organ, but to strive, by the hardest labour and
most rigid economy, to accumulate a sum that will enable them to return
and end their lives in their native village.
"The dress of the Dalecarlians (_dale carls_, or men of the valley)
consists of a sort of doublet and leathern apron, to the latter of
which garments they get so accustomed that they scarcely lay it
aside even on Sundays. Above that they wear a short overcoat of
white flannel. Their round hats are decorated with red tufts, and
their breeches fastened at the knees with red ties and tassels. The
costume of their wives and daughters, who are called Dalecullen,
(women of the valley,) is yet more peculiar and outlandish. It is
composed of a coloured cap, fitting close to the head, of a boddice
with red laces, a gown, usually striped with red and green, and of
scarlet stockings. They wear enormous shoes, large, awkward, and
heavy, made of the very thickest leather, and adorned with the
eternal red frippery. The soles are an inch thick, with huge heels,
stuck full of nails, and placed, not where the heel of the foot is,
but in front, under the toes; and as these remarkable shoes _lift_
at every step, the heels of the stockings are covered with leather.
On Sundays, ample white shirt-sleeves, broad cap-ribands, and large
wreaths of flowers are added to this singular garb, amongst the
wearers of which pretty faces and laughing blue eyes are by no
means uncommon.
"The occupations of these women are of the rudest and most
laborious description. They may be literally said to earn their
bread by the sweat of their brow, and their hands are rendered
callous as horn by the nature of their toil. They act as
bricklayers' labourers, and carry loads of stones upon their
shoulders and up ladders. Besides this, it is a monopoly of theirs
to row a sort of boat, which is impelled by machinery imitating
that of a steamer, but worked by hand. These are tolerably large
vessels, having paddle-wheels fitted to them, which are turned from
within. Each wheel is worked by two young Dalecarlian girls, who
perform this severe labour with the utmost cheerfulness, while an
old woman steers. They pass their lives upon the water, plying from
earliest dawn till late in the night, and conveying passengers, for
a trifling copper coin, across the broad canals which intersect
Stockholm in every direction. Cheerful and pious, the bloom of
health on her cheeks, and the fear of God in her heart, the
Dalecarlian maiden is contented in her humble calling. On Sunday
she would sooner lose a customer than miss her attendance at
church. One sorrowful feeling, and only one, at times saddens her
heart, and that is the _Heimweh_, the yearning after her native
valley, when she longs to return to her wild and beautiful country,
which the high mountains encircle, and the bright stream of the
Dalelf waters. There she has her father and mother, or perhaps a
lover, as poor as herself, and she sees no possibility of ever
earning enough to enable her to return home, and become his wife.
"It was in this province that I now found myself, and its
inhabitants pleased me greatly. Nature has made them hardy and
intelligent, for their life is a perpetual struggle to extract a
scanty subsistence from the niggard and rocky soil. Unenervated by
luxury, uncorrupted by the introduction of foreign vices, they have
been at all periods conspicuous for their love of freedom, for
their penetration in discovering, and promptness in repelling,
attacks upon it. Faithful to their lawful sovereign, they yet
brooked no tyranny; and when invaders entered the land, or bad
governors oppressed them, they were ever ready to defend their just
rights with their lives. From the remotest periods, such has been
the character of this people, which has preserved itself
unsophisticated, true, and free. It is interesting to trace the
history of the Dalecarlians. Isolated in a manner from the rest of
the world amongst their rugged precipices and in their lonely
valleys, it might be supposed they would know nothing of what
passed without; yet whenever the moment for action has come, they
have been found alert and prepared.
"At the commencement of the fifteenth century, Eric XIII., known
also as the Pomeranian, ascended the Swedish throne. His own
disposition was neither bad nor good, but he had too little
knowledge of the country he was called upon to reign over; and his
governors and vice-gerents, for the most part foreigners,
tyrannized unsparingly over the nation. The oppressed people
stretched out their hands imploringly to the king; but he, who was
continually requiring fresh supplies of money for the prosecution
of objectless wars, paid no attention to their complaints. Of all
his Vögte, or governors, not one was so bad and cruel as Jesse
Ericson, who dwelt at Westeraes, and ruled over Dalarna. He laid
enormous imposts on the peasantry, and when they were unable to
pay, he took every thing from them, to their last horse, and
harnessed themselves to the plough. Pregnant matrons were compelled
at his command to draw heavy hay-waggons, women and girls were
shamefully outraged by him, and persons possessing property
unjustly condemned, in order that he might take possession of their
goods. When the peasants came to him to complain, he had them
driven away with stripes, or else cut off their ears, or hung them
up in the smoke till they were suffocated.
"Then the men of Dalarna murmured; they assembled in their valleys,
and held counsel together. An insurrection was decided upon, and
Engelbrecht of Falun was chosen to head it, because, although small
of stature, he had a courageous heart, and knew how to talk or to
fight, as occasion required. He repaired to Copenhagen, laid the
just complaints of his countrymen before the king, and pledged his
head to prove their truth. Eric gave him a letter to the
counsellors of state, some of whom accompanied him back to Dalarna,
and convinced themselves that the distress of the province was
inconceivably great. They exposed this state of things to the king
in a letter, with which Engelbrecht returned to Copenhagen. But, on
seeking audience of Eric, the latter cried out angrily, 'You do
nothing but complain! Go your ways, and appear no more before me.'
So Engelbrecht departed, but he murmured as he went, 'Yet once more
will I return.'
"Although the counsellors themselves urged the king to appoint
another governor over Dalecarlia, he did not think fit to do so.
Then, in the year 1434, so soon as the sun had melted the snow, the
Dalecarlians rose up as one man, marched through the country, and
Jesse Ericson fled before them into Denmark. They destroyed the
dwellings of their oppressors, drove away their hirelings and
retainers, and Engelbrecht advanced, with a thousand picked men, to
Wadstena, where he found an assembly of bishops and counsellors.
From these he demanded assistance, but they refused to accord it,
until Engelbrecht took the bishop of Linköping by the collar, to
deliver him over to his followers. Thereupon they became more
tractable, and renounced in writing their allegiance to Eric, on
the grounds that he had 'made bishops of ignorant ribalds,
entrusted high offices to unworthy persons, and neglected to punish
tyrannical governors.' The Dalecarlians advanced as far as Schonen,
where Engelbrecht concluded a truce, and dismissed them. His army
had consisted of ten thousand peasants, all burning with anger
against their oppressors, and without military discipline; yet, to
his great credit be it said, not a single excess or act of plunder
had been committed.
"On hearing of these disturbances, the king repaired in all haste
to Stockholm, whereupon Engelbrecht again summoned his followers,
and marched upon the capital, in which Eric entrenched himself with
various nobles and governors, who had burned down their castles,
and hastened to join him. Things looked threatening, but
nevertheless ended peaceably, for Eric was afraid of the Swedes. He
obtained peace by promising that in future the provinces, with few
exceptions, should name their own governors, and that Engelbrecht
should be vögt at Oerebro. As usual, however, he broke his word,
and, before sailing for Denmark, he appointed as vögt a man who was
a notorious pirate, a robber of churches, and abuser of women. For
the third time the peasants revolted. In the winter of 1436 they
appeared before Stockholm, which they took, the burghers themselves
helping them to burst open the gates. Engelbrecht seized upon one
fortress after another, meeting no resistance from King Eric, who
fled secretly to Pomerania, leaving the war and his kingdom to take
care of themselves. Several members of the council followed him
thither, and, after some persuasion, brought him back with them.
"In the midst of these changes and commotions, Engelbrecht was
treacherously assassinated by the son of that bishop whom he had
formerly affronted at Wadstena. With tears and lamentations, the
boors fetched the body of their brave and faithful leader from the
little island where his death had occurred, and which to this day
bears his name. The spot on which the murder was committed is said
to be accursed, and no grass ever grows there. Subsequently the
coffin was brought to the church at Oerebro, and so exalted was the
opinion entertained of Engelbrecht's worth and virtue, that the
country people asserted that miracles were wrought at his tomb, as
at the shrine of a saint."
It was nearly a century later that Gustavus Vasa, flying, with a price
upon his head, from the assassins of his father and friends, took refuge
in Dalecarlia. Disguised in peasant's garb, and with an axe in his hand,
he hired himself as a labourer; but was soon recognised, and his
employer feared to retain him in his service. He then appealed to the
Dalecarlians to espouse his cause; but, although they admired and
sympathised with the gallant youth who thus placed his trust in them,
they hesitated to take up arms in his behalf; and, hopeless of their
assistance, he at last turned his steps towards Norway. But scarcely
had he done so, when the incursion of a band of Danish mercenaries sent
to seek him, and the full confirmation of what he had told them
concerning the massacre at Stockholm, roused the Dalecarlians from their
inaction. The tocsin was sounded throughout the provinces, the Danes
were driven away, and the two swiftest runners in the country bound on
their snow-shoes, and set out with the speed of the wind to bring back
the royal fugitive. They overtook him at the foot of the Norwegian
mountains, and soon afterwards he found himself at the head of five
thousand white-coated Dalecarlians.
The Danes were approaching, and one of their bishops asked--"How many
men the province of Dalarna could furnish?"
"At least twenty thousand," was the reply; "for the old men are just as
strong and as brave as the young ones."
"But what do they all live upon?"
"Upon bread and water. They take little account of hunger and thirst,
and when corn is lacking, they make their bread out of tree-bark."
"Nay," said the bishop, "a people who eat tree-bark and drink water, the
devil himself would not vanquish, much less a man."
And neither were they vanquished. Like an avalanche from the mountains,
they fell upon their foes, beat them with clubs, and drove them into the
river. Their progress was one series of triumphs, till they placed
Gustavus Vasa on the throne of Sweden.
The last outbreak of the Dalecarlians was less successful. On the 19th
of June 1743, five thousand of these hardy and determined men appeared
before Stockholm, bringing with them in fetters the governor of their
province, and demanding the punishment of the nobles who had instigated
a war with Russia, and a new election of an heir to the crown. They were
not to be pacified by words; and even the next morning, when the old
King Frederick, surrounded by his general and guards, rode out to
harangue them, all he could obtain was the release of their prisoner. On
the other hand, they seized three pieces of cannon, and dragged them to
the square named after Gustavus Adolphus, where they posted themselves.
"There were eight thousand men of regular troops in Stockholm, but
these were not all to be depended upon, and it was necessary to
bring up some detachments of the guards. A company of Süderländers
who had been ordered to cross the bridge, went right about face, as
soon as they came in sight of the Dalecarlians, and did not halt
till they reached the sluicegate, which had been drawn up, so that
nobody might pass. It was now proclaimed with beat of drum, that
those of the Dalecarlians who should not have left the city by five
o'clock, would be dealt with as rebels and traitors. More than a
thousand did leave, but the others stood firm. Counsellors and
generals went to them, and exhorted them to obedience; but they
cried out that they would make and unmake the king, according to
their own good right and decree, and that if it was attempted to
hinder them, the very child in the cradle should meet no mercy at
their hands. To give greater weight to their words, they fired a
cannon and a volley of musketry, by which a counsellor was killed.
"Orders were now given to the soldiers to fire, but they had pity
on the poor peasants, and only aimed at the houses, shattering the
glass in hundreds of windows. But the artillerymen were obliged to
put match to touch-hole, and a murderous fire of canister did
execution in the masses of the Dalecarlians. Many a white camisole
was stained with the red heart's-blood of its wearer; fifty men
fell dead upon the spot, eighty were wounded, and a crowd of others
sprang into the Norderström, or sought to fly. The regiment of
body-guards pursued them, and drove the discomfited boors into the
artillery court. A severe investigation now took place, and these
thirsters after liberty were punished by imprisonment and running
the gauntlet. Their leader and five others were beheaded.
"The Dalecarlians are a tenacious and obstinate people, and their
character is not likely to change; but God forbid that they should
again deem it necessary to visit Stockholm. They were doubtless
just as brave in the year 1743 as in 1521 and 1434; but though
_they_ had not altered, the times had. Civilization and cartridges
are powerful checks upon undisciplined courage and an unbridled
desire of liberty."
Returning from Dalecarlia to Stockholm, Mr Boas takes, not without
regret, his final farewell of that city, and embarks for Gothenburg,
passing through the Gotha canal, that splendid monument of Swedish
industry and perseverance, which connects the Baltic with the North Sea.
He passes the island of Mörkö, on which is Höningsholm Castle, where
Marshal Banner was brought up. A window is pointed out in the third
story of the castle, at which Banner, when a child, was once playing,
when he overbalanced himself and fell out. The ground beneath was hard
and rocky, but nevertheless he got up unhurt, ran into the house, and
related how a gardener had saved him by catching him in his white apron.
Enquiry was immediately made, but, far or near, no gardener was to be
found. By an odd coincidence, Wallenstein, Banner's great opponent, when
a page at Innspruck, also fell out of a high window without receiving
the least injury.
On the first evening of the voyage, the steamer anchors for the night
near Mem, a country-seat belonging to a certain Count Saltza, an
eccentric old nobleman, who traces his descent from the time of Charles
XII., and fancies himself a prophet and ghost-seer. His predictions
relate usually to the royal family or country of Sweden, and are
repeated from mouth to mouth throughout every province of the kingdom.
And here we must retract an assertion we made some pages back, as to the
possibility of our supposing this book to proceed from any other than a
German pen. No one but a German would have thought it necessary or
judicious to intrude his own insipid sentimentalities into a narrative
of this description, and which was meant to be printed. But there is
probably no conceivable subject on which a German could be set to write,
in discussing which he would not manage to drag in, by neck and heels, a
certain amount of sentiment or metaphysics, perhaps of both. Mr Boas, we
are sorry to say, is guilty of this sin against good taste. The steamer
comes to an anchor about ten o'clock, and he goes ashore with Baron
K----, a friend he has picked up on board, to take a stroll in the
Prophet's garden at Mem. There they encounter Mesdemoiselles Ebba and
Ylfwa, lovely and romantic maidens, who sit in a bower of roses under
the shadow of an umbrageous maple-tree, their arms intertwined, their
eyes fixed upon a moonbeam, piping out Swedish melodies, which, to our
two swains, prove seductive as the songs of a Siren. The moonbeam
aforesaid is kind enough to convert into silver all the trees, bushes,
leaves and twigs in the vicinity of the young ladies with the
Thor-and-Odin names; whilst to complete this German vision, a white bird
with a yellow tuft upon its head stands sentry upon a branch beside
them, the said bird being, we presume, a filthy squealing cockatoo,
although Mr Boas, gay deceiver that he is, evidently wishes us to infer
that it was an indigenous volatile of the phoenix tribe. Sentinel
Cockatoo, however, was caught napping, and the garrison of the bower had
to run for it. And now commences a series of hopes and fears, and doubts
and anxieties, and sighings and perplexities, which keep the tender
heart of Boas in a state of agreeable palpitation, through four or five
chapters; at the end of which he steps on board the steam-boat
Christiana, blows in imagination a farewell kiss to Miss Ebba, of whom,
by the bye, he has never obtained more than half a glimpse, and awaking,
as he tells us, from his love-dream, which we should call his nightmare,
sets sail for Copenhagen.
Of the various places visited by Mr Boas during his ramble, few seem to
have pleased him better than Copenhagen, and he becomes quite
enthusiastic when speaking of that city, and of what he saw there. The
pleasure he had in meeting Thorwaldsen is perhaps in part the cause of
his remembering the Danish capital with peculiar favour. He gives
various details concerning that celebrated sculptor, his character and
habits, and commences the chapter, which he styles, "A Fragment of
Italy in the North," with a comparison between Sweden and Denmark, two
countries which, both in trifling and important matters, but especially
in the character of their inhabitants, are far more dissimilar than from
their juxtaposition might have been supposed. Listen to Mr Boas.
"On meeting an interesting person for the first time, one
frequently endeavours to trace a resemblance with some previous
acquaintance or friend. I have a similar propensity when I visit
interesting cities; but I had difficulty in calling to mind any
place to which I could liken Copenhagen. Between Sweden and Denmark
generally, there are more points of difference than of resemblance.
Sweden is the land of rocks, and Denmark of forest. Oehlenschlägel
calls the latter country, 'the fresh and grassy,' but he might also
have added 'the cool and wooded.'
"The Swedish language is soft and melodious, the Danish sharp and
accentuated. The former is better suited to lyrical, the latter to
dramatic poetry.
"When a Swede laughs, he still looks more serious than a Dane who
is out of humour. In Sweden, the people are quiet, even when
indulging in the pleasures they love best; in Denmark there is no
pleasure without noise. In a political point of view, the
difference between the two nations is equally marked. Beyond the
Sound, all demonstrations are made with fierce earnestness; on this
side of it, satire and wit are the weapons employed. On the one
hand shells and heavy artillery, on the other, light and brilliant
rockets. The Swedes have much liberty of the press and very little
humour; the Danes have a great deal of humour and small liberty of
the press. As a people, the former are of a choleric and melancholy
temperament, the latter of a sanguine and phlegmatic one.
"Whilst the Swedish national hatred is directed against Russia,
that of Denmark takes England for its object. Finland and the fleet
are not yet forgotten.
"The Swede is constantly taking off his hat; the Dane always shakes
hands. The former is courteous and sly, the latter simple and
honest.
"If Denmark has little similarity with its northern neighbour,
neither has it any marked point of resemblance with its southern
one. It always reminds me of the _tongue_ of a balance, vibrating
between Sweden and Germany, and inclining ever to that side on
which the greatest weight lies. Thus its literary tendency is
German, its political one Swedish.
"The best comparison that can be made of Denmark is with Italy; and
to me, although I shall probably surprise the reader by saying so,
Copenhagen appears like a part of Rome transplanted into the north.
In some degree, perhaps, Thorwaldsen is answerable for this
impression; for where he works and creates, one is apt to fancy
oneself surrounded by that warm southern atmosphere in which nature
and art best flourish. When he returned to Copenhagen, it was a
festival day for the whole population of the city. A crew of gaily
dressed sailors rowed him to land, and whilst they were doing so, a
rainbow suddenly appeared in the heavens. The multitude assembled
on the shore set up a shout of jubilation, to see that the sky
itself assumed its brightest tints, to celebrate the return of
their favourite.
"I had been told that I should not see Thorwaldsen, because he was
staying with the Countess Stampe. This lady is about forty years of
age, and possesses that blooming _embonpoint_ which makes up in
some women for the loss of youthful freshness. She became
acquainted with the artist in Italy, and fascinated him to such a
degree that he made her a present of the whole of his drawings,
which are of immense artistical value. She excited much ill-will by
accepting them, but at the same time it must in justice be owned,
that Thorwaldsen is under great obligations to her. He had hardly
arrived in Copenhagen, when innumerable invitations to breakfasts,
dinners, and suppers were poured upon him. Every body wanted to
have him; and, as he was known to love good living, the most
sumptuous repasts were prepared for him. The sturdy old man, who
had never been ill in his life, became pale and sickly, lost his
taste for work, and was in a fair way to die of an indigestion,
when the Countess Stampe stepped in to the rescue, carried him off
to her country-seat, and there fitted him up a studio. His health
speedily returned, and with it the energy for which he has always
been remarkable, and he joyfully resumed the chisel and modelling
stick.
"I had scarcely set foot in the streets of Copenhagen, when I saw
Thorwaldsen coming towards me. I was sure that I was not mistaken,
for no one who has ever looked upon that fine benevolent
countenance, that long silver hair, clear, high forehead and gently
smiling mouth--no one who has ever gazed into those divine blue
orbs, wherein creative power seems so sweetly to repose, could ever
forget them again. I went up and spoke to him. He remembered me
immediately, shook my hand with that captivating joviality of
manner which is peculiar to him, and invited me into his house. He
inhabits the Charlottenburg, an old chateau on the Königsneumarkt,
by crossing the inner court of which one reaches his studio. My
most delightful moments in Copenhagen were passed there, looking on
whilst he worked at the statues of deities and heroes--he himself
more illustrious than them all. There they stand, those lifelike
and immortal groups, displaying the most wonderful variety of form
and attitude, and yet, strange to say, Thorwaldsen scarcely ever
makes use of a model. His most recently commenced works were two
gigantic allegorical figures, Samson and Aesculapius. The first was
already completed, and I myself saw the bearded physiognomy of
Aesculapius growing each day more distinct and perfect beneath the
cunning hand of the master. The statues represent Strength and
Health."
In his house, and as a private individual, Thorwaldsen is as amiable and
estimable as in his studio. In the centre of one of his rooms is a
four-sided sofa, which was embroidered expressly for him by the fair
hands of the Copenhagen ladies. The walls are covered with pictures,
some of them very good, others of a less degree of merit. They were not
all bought on account of their excellence; Thorwaldsen purchased many of
them to assist young artists who were living, poor and in difficulties,
at Rome. Dressed in his blue linen blouse, he explained to his visitor
the subjects of these pictures, without the slightest tinge of vanity in
his manner or words. None of the dignities or honours that have been
showered upon him, have in the slightest degree turned his head.
Affable, cheerful, and even-tempered, he appears to have preserved, to
his present age of sixty, much of the joyous lightheartedness of youth.
With great glee he related to Mr Boas the trick he had played the
architects of the church of Our Lady at Copenhagen.
"Architects are obstinate people," said he, "and one must know how to
manage them. Thank God, that is a knowledge which I possess in a
tolerable degree. When the church of Our Lady was built, the architect
left six niches on either side of the interior, and these were to
contain the twelve apostles. In vain did I represent to them that
statues were meant to be looked at on all sides, and that nobody could
see through a stone wall; I implored, I coaxed them, it was all in vain.
Then thought I to myself, he is best served who serves himself, and
thereupon I made the statues a good half-foot higher than the niches.
You should have seen the length of the architects' faces when they found
this out. But they could not help themselves; the infernal sentry-boxes
were bricked up, and my apostles stand out upon their pedestals, as you
may have seen when you visited the church."
Thorwaldsen is devotedly attached to Copenhagen, and has made a present
to the city of all his works and collections, upon condition that a
fitting locality should be prepared for their reception, and that the
museum should bear his name. The king gave a wing of the Christiansburg
for this purpose, the call for subscriptions was enthusiastically
responded to, and the building is now well advanced. Its style of
architecture is unostentatious, and its rows of large windows will admit
a broad decided light upon the marble groups. Pending its completion,
the majority of the statues and pictures are lodged in the palace.
Mr Boas appears bent upon establishing his parallel between Denmark and
Italy. He traces it in the fondness of the Danes for art, poetry, and
music, in their gay and joyous character, and in their dress. He even
discovers an Italian punchinello figuring in a Danish puppet-show; and
as it was during the month of August that he found himself in Denmark,
the weather was not such as to dispel his illusions.
"It would be erroneous," he says, "to suppose that Danish costumes
weaken or obliterate the idea of a southern region conveyed by this
country. A Bolognese professor would not think of covering his head with
the red cap of a Lazzarone, and Roman marchesas dress themselves, like
Danish countesses, according to the _Journal des Modes_. National
costumes in all countries have taken refuge in villages, and the
peasants in the environs of Copenhagen have no reason to be ashamed of
their garb, which is both showy and picturesque. The men wear round hats
and dark-blue jackets, lined with scarlet and adorned with long
glittering rows of bullet-shaped buttons. The women are very tasteful in
their attire. Their dark-green gowns, with variegated borders, reach
down to their heels, and the shoulder-strap of the closely fitting
boddice is a band of gold lace. The chief pains are bestowed upon the
head-dress, which is various in its fashion, sometimes composed of clear
white stuff, with an embroidered lappet, falling down upon the neck;
sometimes of a cap of many colours, heavily embroidered with gold, and
having broad ribands of a red purple, which flutter over the shoulders.
One meets every where with this original sort of costume; for the
peasant women repair in great numbers to the festivals at the various
towns, and in Copenhagen they are employed as nurses to the children of
the higher classes.
"During my sojourn in the Danish capital, the weather was so
obliging as in no way to interfere with my Cisalpine illusions. The
sky continued a spotless dome of lapis-lazuli, out of which the sun
beamed like a huge diamond; and if now and then a little cloud
appeared, it was no bigger than a white dove flitting across the
blue expanse. The days were hot, a bath in the lukewarm sea
scarcely cooled me, and at night a soft dreamy sort of vapour
spread itself over the earth. I only remember one single moment
when the peculiarities of a northern climate made themselves
obvious. It was in the evening, and I was returning with my friend
Holst from the delightful forest-park of Friedrichsberg. The sky
was one immense blue prairie, across which the moon was solitarily
wandering, when suddenly the atmosphere became illuminated with a
bright and fiery light; a large flaming meteor rushed through the
air, and, bursting with a loud report, divided itself into a
hundred dazzling balls of fire. These disappeared, and immediately
afterwards a white mist seemed to rise out of the earth, and the
stars shone more dimly than before. Over stream and meadow rolled
the fog, in strange fantastical shapes, floating like a silver
gauze among the tree-stems and foliage, till it gradually wove
itself into one close and impervious veil. To such appearances as
these must legends of elves and fairies owe their origin."
It is something rather new for an author to introduce into his book a
criticism of another work on the same subject. This, Mr Boas, who
appears to be a bold man, tolerably confident in his own capabilities
and acquirements, has done, and in a very amusing, although not
altogether an unobjectionable manner. He must be sanguine, however, if
he expects his readers to place implicit faith in his impartiality.
Under the title of "A Tour in the North," he devotes a long chapter to a
bitter attack on the Countess Hahn-Hahn's book of that name. Here is its
commencement:--
"A year previously to myself, Ida, Countess Hahn-Hahn, had visited
Sweden, and the fruit of her journey was, as is infallible with
that lady, a book. When I arrived at Stockholm, people were just
reading it, and I found them highly indignant at the nonsense and
misrepresentations it contains. When a German goes to Sweden he is
received as a brother, with a warmth and heartiness which should
make a doubly pleasing impression, if we reflect how important it
is in our days to preserve a mutual confidence and good-will
between nations. When meddling persons make the perfidious attempt
to embitter a friendly people by scoffing and abuse, there should
be an end to forbearance, and it becomes a duty to strike in with
soothing words. We must show the Swedes how such scribblings are
appreciated in Germany, lest they should think we take a pleasure
in ridiculing what is noble and good."
And thereupon, Mr Boas does "strike in," as he calls it; but however
soothing his words may prove to his ill-used Swedish friends, we have
considerable doubts as to their emollient effect upon the Countess,
supposing always that she condescends to read them. He hits that lady
some very hard knocks, not all of them, perhaps, entirely undeserved;
makes out an excellent case for the Swedes, and proves, much more
satisfactorily to himself than to us, that Madame Hahn-Hahn is of a very
inferior grade of bookmaking tourists.
"In the first place" he says, "I declare that her work on Sweden is no
original, but a dull imitation of Gustavus Nicolai's notorious book,
'Italy, as it really is.' Like that author, the Countess labours
assiduously to collect together all the darkest shades and least
favourable points of the country and people she visits; exaggerates them
when she finds them, and invents them when she does not. For the
beauties of the country she has neither eye nor feeling; she
intentionally avoids speaking of them, and her book is meant, like that
of Nicolai, to operate as a warning, and scare away travellers. The good
lady says this very explicitly. 'Travellers are beginning to turn their
attention a good deal to the north, for the south is becoming
insufficient to gratify that universal rage for rambling, with which I
myself, as a true child of the century, am also infected. But the north
is so little known--I, for my part, only knew it through Dahl's poetical
landscapes--that one feels involuntarily disposed to deck it with the
colours of the south, because the south is beautiful, and the north is
said also to be so. Thus one is apt to set out with a delusion, and I
think it will therefore be an act of kindness to those who may visit
Sweden after me, if I say exactly how I found it.' Uncommonly good,
Gustavus the second. But it would be unfair to Nicolai to assert that
his book is as dull and nonsensical as that of the Countess Hahn-Hahn.
He went to Italy with the idea that it never rained there, and that
oranges grew on the hedges, as sloes do with us. This was childish, and
one could not help laughing at it. But when his imitatress perpetually
laments and complains, because on the Maeler lake, under the 59th degree
of latitude, she does not find the sultry southern climate--it becomes
worse than childish, and one is compelled to pity her. The Countess
chanced to hit upon a cool rainy month for her visit--I am wrong, she
was not a month in Scandinavia altogether--and thereupon she cries out
as if she were drowning, and despises both country and people."
It is easy to understand that there can be little sympathy between the
Countess Hahn-Hahn, an imaginative and somewhat capricious fine lady,
with strong aristocratic and exclusive tendencies, and such a
matter-of-fact person as Mr Boas, who, in spite of his sentimentality,
which is a sort of national infirmity, and although he informs us in one
part of his book that he is a poet, leans much more to the practical and
positive than to the imaginative and dreamy, and we moreover suspect is
a bit of a democrat. Having, however, taken the Countess _en grippe_, as
the French call it, he shows her no mercy, and, it must be owned,
displays some cleverness in hitting off and illustrating the weak points
of her character and writings.
"Hardly," he resumes, "has the female Nicolai reached Stockholm, when
she begins with her insipid comparisons. 'The golden brilliancy of
Naples and the magic spell of Venice are here entirely wanting.' Is it
possible? Only see what striking remarks this witty and travelled dame
does make! In the next page she says:--'Upon this very day, exactly one
year since, I was in Barcelona; but here there is nothing that will bear
comparison with the land of the aloe and the orange. Three years ago I
was on the Lake of Como, in that fairy garden beyond the Alps! Five
years ago in Vienna, amongst the rose-groves of Laxenburg;' &c. Who
cares in what places the Countess has been? Surely it is enough that she
has written long wearisome books about them. Every possible corner of
Italy, Spain, and Switzerland is dragged laboriously in, to furnish
forth comparisons; and soon, no doubt, a similar use will be made of
Egypt, Syria, and Mesopotamia. These comparisons are invariably shown to
be to the disadvantage of Sweden; and although the lady is oftentimes
compelled to confess to the beauty of a Swedish landscape, she never
forgets to qualify the admission, by observing how much more beautiful
such or such a place was. For example, she is standing one night at her
window, looking out on the Maeler lake. 'I wrapped my mantilla
shiveringly around me, stepped back from the window, shut it, and said
with a slight sigh: In Venice the moonlight nights were very different.'
Really this would be hardly credible, did any other than a countess
assure us of it."
"Every thing in Sweden is disagreeable and adverse to her; roads,
houses, food, people, and money; rocks, trees, rivers and flowers;
but especially sun, sky, and air. She talks without ceasing of
heavy clouds and pouring rains, but even this abundance of water is
insufficient to mitigate the dryness of her book."
"I am always sorry," says a witty French writer, "when a woman becomes
an author: I would much rather she remained a woman." Does Mr Boas,
perchance, partake this implied opinion, that authorship unsexes; and is
it therefore that he allows himself to deal out such hard measure to the
Countess Ida? Even if we agreed with his criticisms, we should quarrel
with his want of gallantry. But it is tolerably evident that if Madame
Hahn-Hahn, finding herself on the shores of the Baltic, in a July that
might have answered to December in the sunny climes she had so recently
left, allowed her account of Swedes and Sweden to be shaded a little _en
noir_ by her own physical discomforts; it is evident, we say, that on
the other hand, our present author, either more favoured by the season,
or less susceptible of its influence, sins equally in the contrary
extreme, and throws a rosy tint over all that he portrays. Though
equally likely to induce into error, it is the pleasanter fault to those
persons who merely read the tour for amusement, without proposing to
follow in the footsteps of the tourist. Your complaining, grumbling
travellers are bores, whether on paper or in a post-chaise; and, truth
to tell, we have noticed in others of the Countess's books a disposition
to look on the dark side of things. But this is not always the case,
and, when she gets on congenial ground, she shines forth as a writer of
a very high order. Witness her Italian tour, and her book upon Turkey
and Syria, with which latter, English readers have recently been made
acquainted through an admirable translation, by the accomplished author
of _Caleb Stukely_. She has her little conceits, and her little fancies;
rather an overweening pride of caste, and contempt for the plebeian
multitude, and an addiction to filling too many pages of her books with
small personal and egotistical details about herself, and her
sensations, and what dresses she wears, and how thin she is, and so on.
But with all her faults, she is unquestionably a very accomplished and
clever writer. Her criticisms on subjects relating to art, and
especially her original and sparkling remarks on painting and
architecture, although qualified by Mr Boas as twaddle, stamp her at
once as a woman of no common order. She has profound and poetical
conceptions of Beauty, and at times a felicity of expression in
presenting the effects of nature and art upon her own mind, that strikes
and startles by its novelty and power. As a delineator of men and
manners, she is remarkable for shrewdness, subtle perception, and
truthfulness that cannot be mistaken. Should our readers doubt our
statements, or haply Mr Boas turn up his nose at the eulogium, we would
simply refer them and him to the last work that has fallen from her pen,
the Letters from the Orient, and bid them open it at the page which
brings them to a Bedouin encampment--a scene described with the vigour
that belongs to a masculine understanding, and all the fascination which
a feminine mind can bestow.
Still we are free to confess that the Countess has written perhaps
rather too much for the time she has been about it, and thus laid
herself open to an accusation of bookmaking, the prevailing vice of the
present race of authors. The incorrigible and merciless Mr Boas does not
let this pass.
"The question now remains to be asked," says he; "Why did Ida Hahn-Hahn,
upon leaving a country in which she had passed a couple of weeks--a
country of the language of which she confesses herself ignorant, and
with which she was in every respect thoroughly displeased, deem it
incumbent on her forthwith to write a thick book concerning it? The
answer is this: her pretended impulse to authorship is merely feigned,
otherwise she would not have troubled herself any further about such a
wearisome country as Sweden. Through three hundred and fifty pages does
she drag herself, grumbling as she goes; a single day must often fill a
score of pages, for travelling costs money, and the _honorarium_ is not
to be despised. If I thus accuse the Countess of bookmaking, I also feel
that such an accusation should be supported by abundant proof, and such
proof am I ready to give."
Oh fye, Boas! How can you be so ruthless? Besides the impolicy of
exposing the tricks of your trade, all this is very spiteful indeed. You
would almost tempt us, were it worth while, to take up the cudgels in
earnest in defence of the calumniated Countess, and to give you a crack
on the pate, which, as Maga is regularly translated into German for the
benefit and improvement of your countrymen, would entirely finish your
career, whether as poet, tour-writer, or any thing else. But seeing that
your conceits and lucubrations have afforded us one or two good laughs,
and considering, moreover, that you are of the number of those small fry
with which it is almost condescension for us to meddle, we will let you
off, and close this notice of your book, if not with entire approbation,
at least with a moderate meed of praise.