SWEDEN (_Continued_).
WE are going across the kingdom, from Stockholm to Gottenburg. We might
be carried through by rail in a day; but what should we see of life in
Sweden if we went flying over it in that style? We will take the slower
and better way, by the raging canal. This canal is the Erie of Sweden.
It extends from lake to lake, and so connects sea with sea, the Baltic
with the Atlantic; it leaves Malar lake, and takes lakes Wetter and
Wener in its way, and all the chief towns of the interior; and as the
travelling is rationally moderate, the pauses frequent and long, we have
a fine opportunity to study the country and the people whom we have come
to see.
It is a steam canal; that is, a canal for steam navigation, as the Erie
and other canals of our country ought to be, and might be, but for the
penny-wise and pound-foolish policy of politicians. The steamers are
small. We embarked for this inland voyage on the OSCAR, a royal name.
The cabin had ten state-rooms, with two berths in each; a wash-stand in
the middle had a movable cover, making a table, on which I am writing.
The boat is furnished with great simplicity, but is comfortable. It is
crowded with passengers; several families, with children and luggage
immense, probably emigrants on their way to the land of promise. Their
friends in troops thronged the wharf to see them go, and when the
hand-shakings and hugging and kissing were finished, the boat was off,
and the tears and waving of rags continued as we steamed away.
The clouds wept too, for a few moments, and then, like the passengers,
dried up; smiles and the sun came out again, and beautiful Stockholm
seemed more beautiful as we left it than it did while we were in it. The
green slopes around the city were joyous in the sinking sun. The iron
steeple of the Ridderkolm, and the white palace, and many spires,
glistened in the light. Gems of islands, with pretty bridges uniting
their shores, neat villas, with lawns carpeted with rich verdure,
abodes, we may hope, of sweet content and comfort, are on either hand,
and now and then, from a window or balcony, a white handkerchief greets
a friend on board, who responds, and we have a telegraphic communication
at once with the people we are leaving. I do love to find in strange
lands, and among those whose language is all unknown to me, the same
ties, the same loves and hopes, that fill our own hearts at home. It
makes me know that all these people are my kin, children of my Father.
We have been passing across Lake Malar. But now, at seven in the
evening, we enter a lock, and the Gota Canal begins. The village of
_Sodertelje_ receives us here. So sweet does it seem to be, in its quiet
repose, that every house appears to invite you to stop and make a visit.
It was at this point that St. Olaf, when a viking, was shut in by the
fleets of the Swedes and Danes, and he cut his way out, not through the
enemies’ fleets, but by digging a canal to the Baltic! This was in the
eleventh century, and no such feats of rapid canalling were known from
that time down to the Dutch Gap ditch, during the late war in America.
The story of the saint is history, and the other one will not be
forgotten.
The passage of the lock from the lake to the canal is tedious, but in
the mean time the villagers come on board and greet friends, the
children, as in all other countries, ply their sales of cake and fruit,
till we are out and enter the Gota Canal. The banks for some time are
fifty feet high, but they slope away gradually, and are beautiful in
their green sod. Neat cottages and wooded walks and gardens, signs of
taste and culture, and plenty, are on our right hand and left; and these
dwellings are so near that the canal seems a street like those of
Venice, where you step from the gondola to the marble threshold of your
house. Passengers on board recognize their acquaintance, and exchange
salutations. Now and then an old mansion, with many out-buildings, shows
that an extensive farm is behind; and occasionally we pass a village
which appears to be of modern creation, as if progress was making even
in Sweden. We are following the course of the very same canal that St.
Olaf, the viking, cut in such a hurry eight hundred years ago, and we
soon come to the end of it, and run again into the sea, or a bay of the
Baltic, and keep along the coast, among a wilderness of islands,
touching now and then at one of them to drop or take a passenger. Heaps
of rock on the points are painted white to guide us in the mazes of
these intricate passes, and sometimes trees have been moored in the
water to mark the pathway of the ship. Ruins of castles, each one of
which has its legends as romantic as those of the Rhine, still haunt
these rocks. Stegeborg Castle is the most picturesque in its solitary
grandeur and desolation, and the traditions of the country associate it
with many a hard-fought fight in times so far gone by that history is
rather too romantic to be credited.
The night is now about us, but in these latitudes it makes little
difference for seeing the country whether it is night or day. There was
no sleeping to be done, for some of the rising generation rose all
night, and made the little cabin vocal with their cries, so that only
those who enjoy the music of sleepless babes could be said to have a
pleasant night in that vicinity. Out of my little window I see the
islands, with their stunted firs, shores rarely rising so as to be
entitled to the dignity of hills, sometimes a forest, and here and there
a house, red and neat, with no signs of slovenliness or poverty.
It was very early in the morning when we left the canal-boat, and in the
midst of a drizzling rain followed a porter who had been directed by the
captain to take our luggage to a hotel, the best hotel in the village of
Soderkoping.
This was the village we had selected as a quiet, retired, obscure, but
pleasant place to pass a sabbath in, to see the Swedes in their rural
churches and in their humble homes.
It was so early when we came to the little wooden tavern that no one was
astir. We went around to the back door, as the porter led us, and there
knocked long and loud, till a maid thrust her head out of the window,
and made signs that she would come down and let us in, which she did.
The American language was of no use now. French was no better. But we
managed to let her know, morning as it was, we wanted beds. She led us
to the chambers, and when we pointed to the sheets as having already
seen service since the last wash, she took the hint in a moment, and,
pulling them off, supplied their places with linen without wrinkles.
After a few hours sleep we rose for breakfast, taking what should be set
before us. It proved to be comfortable. Coffee with delicious cream,
bread and beefsteak on a novel plan, chopped fine, made into cakes and
fried in butter with spices.
It was our FIRST SABBATH IN SWEDEN. An ancient brick church with a
spire, a venerable structure, stood near a swiftly flowing stream of
water, embowered in majestic trees, and surrounded with the graves of
buried generations of those who had worshipped within its old walls. It
was a solemn, yet beautiful spot, and all its surroundings were in
keeping. The graveyard was laid off in little plats, and the graves were
bordered with flowers. On some graves pots of flowers were set, and on
others fresh-plucked flowers were strewn, soon to wither and to be
replaced. The bell was tolling and the people were assembling; all came
on foot and by walks leading through the yard from various parts of the
village. Some had come evidently from a distance in the country, with
books in their hands. All were decently devout in their deportment as
they came; even among the young there was no levity, they were on a
solemn errand, and were sensible of the time and place.
The sexton sat at the door, with a big key in his hand, and opened the
door to let the people in, but locked it when prayer began, and kept it
locked till prayer was ended, and then admitted those who had gathered.
Earthen pitchers or jugs stood on stools near the door to receive the
offerings, and many cast in what they had. The floor was of stone, and
many were tombstones, the inscriptions worn by the footsteps of the
living, so that the names of the dead were illegible. Eight immense
whitewashed pillars supported Gothic arches on which the roof rested.
The pulpit was of wood, elaborately carved, with Scripture scenes and
figures. A sounding-board above it was ornamented with quaint devices,
and surmounted by a human figure, perhaps an image of the Saviour. On
the front the word JEHOVAH, in Hebrew letters, was inscribed. The pews
were very plain, unpainted slips, with doors locked until the owners
came, whose names were on slips of paper attached. On the sides of the
church, long rude seats were free. We occupied them. The congregation
was very slow in getting in. The same variety of dress that would mark
one of our rural churches was apparent. Rich and poor met together. Some
of the ladies were dressed elaborately with the flat French bonnet;
others in a costume of the country, a small black shawl or kerchief
thrown over the head and pinned under the chin. The men were all rustic
in garb and manner, accustomed to out-of-door hard work. All appeared
devotional, respectful; old and young, on coming in, bowed in silent
prayer; all stood in singing. The service was Lutheran, the established
religion. All had books of the service, which was read with a loud voice
and much intonation by the clerk. The preacher was a handsome young man,
with great energy of voice and no action. His text had the name Jesus
Christ in it, and the words were often repeated with tenderness and
earnestness. I could understand no other words, and could only hope that
as even those were sweet to my ears, the preacher was commending him to
the congregation as the chief among ten thousand, the one altogether
lovely.
Many of the men took snuff. The man on my right, two on my left, two in
front of me, held the box under their noses to catch what fell back in
the operation. They also offered the same boxes to me. One of the men
sneezed immoderately four or five times. The sexton going up the aisle,
and standing on the tombstone of some old saint, blew his (the sextons,
not the saint’s) nose with his fingers, wiped it with a blue cotton
handkerchief, polished it off with the back of his hand, and then walked
up to the pulpit to do his errand.
Bating the snuff-taking and the nasal twang in the singing, the service
was pleasing even to us who heard no words that we could understand. We
worshipped in spirit, and felt at home among the children of our Father,
not one of whom knew that two strangers from beyond the sea were in
their village church on this pleasant summer sabbath morning.
Soderkoping proved to be more of a place than we had anticipated. It
was, and is even a watering-place. Pleasantly planted on the banks of
the great canal, with historic and towering heights rising by its side,
and rejoicing also in the possession of a mineral spring, whose healing
virtues have been spread among the people of this and other countries,
it has become a resort for invalids. It maintains at one end of the
village a series of bathing-houses, and modest lodgings for visitors,
and a “conversation hall” of moderate dimensions, and some hundreds of
the ill-to-do may be carefully cared for, and, perhaps, cured at the
same time. But there is no hotel, nor any thing worth the name. The
village is primitive, simple, neat as a new pin, not the sign of a new
building going on anywhere. It might have been finished years ago, and
kept in order to be looked at as a curiosity. The dwellings are, all of
them, low, unpretending, small, and usually of wood.
Dr. Gustaff Bottiger, physician and surgeon, called at our lodgings in
Soderkoping. He spoke the French well, and English tolerably, and we
were able to get on with him delightfully. He is a fine looking man,
accomplished in manners, and superintendent of the “Water Cure.”
The mineral waters of this locality have had a reputation in Europe
through the long period of eight hundred years. They were formerly
resorted to by invalids from Italy and Spain, as well as other
countries. But in the course of time, and after the discovery of other
springs, and the invention of more, the fame of these in Sweden
declined. The town declined also. But when the modern water-cure idea
sprang into being, an establishment was opened here, which has proved to
be a wonderful success. It is resorted to by a thousand persons every
year, who come as patients, and patiently submit to the hydraulic,
hydrostatic, and hydropathic, and all the hydra-headed processes of
scientific treatment requisite to purify the system and make the patient
clean inside and out. The cure is sure for nearly all diseases to which
flesh is heir, but is specially efficient in expelling such monsters as
rheumatism, gout, and dyspepsia. The College of Health in Sweden, a
national institution, has the establishment under its control, and the
company that have taken out a royal charter, and built the bath and
packing houses, have made provision for ninety patients, who are
constantly lodged, fed, and water-cured at public expense, and one
hundred and thirty more are treated gratuitously, with the use of the
establishment, while they pay for their board and lodging. Six hundred
patients can be supplied with baths at one time.
The establishment thus combines the advantages of a free and pay
hospital, as do many of our asylums for the afflicted in America. But I
am not aware that any of our States have made provision for sending
their invalid poor to water cures. Our inebriate asylums may be called
water cures in the best sense of the term, and it is quite certain,
whether intemperance be a sin or a disease, or both, there is no hope of
a cure without the use of cold water.
Here at Soderkoping the rich and the poor are so mingled and packed and
purified, that the distinction is not palpable, and the institution is a
model of social and medical propriety and equality.
Dr. Bottiger is enthusiastic in his pursuit of the grand idea he is here
set to work out, and the patients catch his enthusiasm, believe in him
and in the cure, and that helps the cure amazingly. It is not worth
while to discuss the reason of the thing, or to inquire whether the
mineral water here flowing at least eight centuries, and probably
eighteen and many more, is any better for the cure than other waters. I
am inclined to believe that there is superior virtue in the springs. But
any waters are good enough, with the advantage of air, exercise,
temperance, and recreation, to make most people whole who are only
partially broken down. Nine-tenths of these invalids, especially of the
richer classes, are victims of their own imprudences. God gave man
reason, but he makes a poor use, or rather no use of it, when he works
his brain so much as to overwork it, and loads his stomach so as to
overload it, and by neglect of the laws of health, which are just as
well defined as the moral laws of God, brings upon himself dyspepsia,
and that long catalogue of evils that haunt the victim. He must be a bad
liver who has a diseased liver. It was his own fault, in the first
place, and the warning that he had he neglected, and now when he comes
to Soderkoping, or goes to Kissingen, Spa, or Kreusnacht, for the
benefit of his health, he is suffering the penalty of his own indulgence
or neglect. If an ante-mortem coroner’s inquest should be held on his
arrival at the springs, the verdict would be _served him right_.
There are six or eight water-cure establishments in Sweden, one in
Norway, none in Denmark. The system is popular in this part of Europe,
and in Germany. Patients appear to be attracted to them not so much by
advertisements of special advantages, but by the reports which patients
spread abroad, when they go away relieved of their maladies.
Just after the doctor left us a young man called who had heard that two
Americans were here, and he wished to get information respecting the
United States. He brought with him a phrase-book in German and English,
or rather in German and _American_, for the book was called “The Little
American,” and was made to teach the American language. The most it
could do was to aid the young to pick up a few phrases of the language,
and to stimulate their desire to emigrate to the western world. The book
was evidently issued by the steamship or emigration companies, for it
gave all needful directions as to the expense and mode of getting to
America, and it held out the most encouraging prospects to those who
might be tempted to go. The desire is wide-spread—to seek a home in the
New World. Books and papers and pictures are industriously spread among
the village and rural population to stimulate this desire. The wages of
labor are represented as so great in contrast with their own earnings,
while nothing is said of the cost of living,—the price of land is said
to be so low in comparison with land here, which is not to be bought at
all,—that they are filled with the idea of going to a country where they
suppose they may get all they want for little or nothing. To what a sad
reality they wake up when they set their feet on our shores, and find
themselves in the midst of the harpies of New York!
Our bill for boarding and lodging, every thing included, at this village
tavern, where we were well cared for, and had all that we could
reasonably desire, was less than a dollar a day for each person. Board
at private houses can be procured for much less. And if you are not able
to pay any thing, and have the dyspepsia, it is quite likely that I
could give you a line of introduction to the doctor, who would put you
on the free list, pack you, duck you, all but drown you, cure you, and
send you on your way rejoicing, with refreshing memories of Soderkoping.