WOMEN IN NORWAY AND GERMANY.
I must say that of all the customs prevailing in the different parts
of Europe, not excepting the most civilized states of Germany, this
one of making the women do all the heavy work strikes me as the
nearest approximation to the perfection of domestic discipline. The
Diggers of California and the Kaffres of Africa understand this thing
exactly, and no man of any spirit belonging to those tribes would any
more think of performing the drudgery which he imposes upon his wife
and daughters than a German or Norwegian. What is the use of having
wives and children if they don't relieve us of our heavy work? In that
respect we Americans are very much behind the times. We pay such
absurd devotion to the weakness of woman that they rule us with a
despotism unknown in any other country. Their smiles are threats, and
their tears are despotic manifestoes, against which the bravest of us
dare not rebel. It is absolutely horrible to think of the condition of
servitude in which we are placed by the extraordinary powers vested
in, and so relentlessly exercised by, the women of America. I, for
one, am in favor of a revival of the old laws of Nuremberg, by which
female tyranny was punished. By a decree of the famous Council of
Eight, any woman convicted of beating her husband or otherwise
maltreating him was forced to wear a dragon's head for the period of
three days; and if she did not, at the expiration of that date, ask
his pardon, she was compelled to undergo a regimen of bread and water
for the space of three weeks, or until effectually reduced to
submission. Something must be done, or we shall be compelled sooner or
later to adopt a clause in the Constitution prohibiting from admission
the State of Matrimony. What would the ladies do then? I think that
would bring them to their senses.
Not only in the matter of domestic discipline, but of business and
pleasure, are the people of Europe infinitely ahead of us. In France
many of the railway stations are attended by female clerks, and in
Germany the beer-saloons are ornamented by pretty girls, who carry
around the foaming schoppens, having a spare smile and a joke for
every customer. Of opera-singers, dancers, and female fiddlers, the
most famous are produced in Europe. The wheeling girls of Hamburg, who
roll after the omnibuses in circus fashion, are the only specimens in
the line of popular attractions that I have not yet seen in the
streets or public resorts of New York.
[Illustration: WHEELING GIRLS.]
What would be thought of half a dozen of these street acrobats
rolling down Broadway or the Fifth Avenue? Doubtless they would
attract considerable attention, and probably turn many a good penny. I
fancy the Bowery boys would enjoy this sort of thing. A pretty girl of
sixteen or seventeen, with her crinoline securely bundled up between
her ankles, wheeling merrily along after an omnibus at the rate of
five miles an hour, would be an attractive as well as extraordinary
spectacle. For my part, I would greatly prefer it to our best female
lectures on phrenology or physiology. I think a girl who can roll in
that way must be possessed of uncommon genius. The wheeling boys of
London are but clumsy spectacle compared with this. No man of
sensibility can witness such a sight without regarding it as the very
poetry of motion.
But this digression has led me a little out of the way. I was on the
road to Djerkin. A sharp pull of half a mile up the hill brought me to
the door of the station, where I was kindly greeted by the family.
Descending from my cariole a little stiff after the last long stage, I
entered the general sitting-room, where there was a goodly assemblage
of customers smoking and drinking, and otherwise enjoying themselves.
The landlady, however, would not permit me to stop in such rude
quarters, but hurried me at once into the fine room of the
establishment. While she was preparing a venison steak and some
coffee, I took a survey of the room, which was certainly ornamented in
a very artistical manner. The sofa was covered with little scraps of
white net-work; the bureau was dotted all over with little angels made
of gauze, highly-colored pin-cushions, and fanciful paper boxes and
card-stands. The walls were decorated with paintings of cows, stags,
rocks, waterfalls, and other animals, and gems of Norwegian scenery,
the productions of the genius of the family--the oldest son, a Justice
of the Peace for the District, now absent on business at Christiania.
They were very tolerably executed. The old lady was so proud of them
that she took care to call my attention to their merits immediately
upon entering the room, informing me, with much warmth of manner, that
her son was a highly respectable man, of wonderful talents, who had
held the honorable position of Justice of the Peace for the past ten
years, and that there was something in my face that reminded her of
her dear boy. In fact, she thought our features bore a striking
resemblance--only Hansen had rather a more melancholy expression, his
wife having unfortunately died about three years ago (here the poor
old lady heaved a profound sigh). But I could judge for myself. There
was his portrait, painted by a German artist who spent some months at
this place last summer. I looked at the portrait with some curiosity.
It was that of a man about forty years of age, with a black skull-cap
on his head, a long queue behind, and a pair of spectacles on his
nose--his face very thin and of a cadaverous expression; just such a
man as you would expect to find upon a justice's bench of a country
district in Norway. Was it possible I bore any resemblance to this
learned man? The very idea was so startling, not to say flattering,
that I could hardly preserve my composure. I mumbled over something to
the effect that it was a good face--for scenic purposes; but every
time I tried to acknowledge the likeness to myself the words stuck in
my throat. Finally, I was forced to ask the landlady if she would be
so kind as to bring me a glass of brandy-wine, for I was afraid she
would discover the internal convulsions which threatened every moment
to rend my ribs asunder. While she was looking after the brandy-wine I
made a hasty copy of the portrait, and I now leave it to the impartial
reader to decide upon the supposed resemblance. It may be like me, but
I confess the fact never would have impressed itself upon my mind from
any personal observation of my own countenance taken in front of a
looking-glass.
[Illustration: JUSTICE OF THE PEACE.]
There was something so genial and cozy about the inn at Djerkin that I
partially resolved to stop all night. At dinner-time the landlord made
his appearance steaming hot from the kitchen. I no longer hesitated
about staying. I am a great believer in the physiognomy of inns as
well as of landlords. Traveling through a wild country like Norway,
where there is little beyond the scenery to attract attention, the
unpretending stations by the wayside assume a degree of importance
equaled only by the largest cities in other countries. The approach,
the aspect of the place, the physiognomy of the house, become matters
of the deepest interest to the solitary wayfarer, who clings to these
episodes in the day's journey as the connecting links that bind him to
the great family of man. I claim to be able to tell from the general
expression of an inn, commencing at the chimney-top and ending at the
steps of the front door, exactly what sort of cheer is to be had
within--whether the family are happily bound together in bonds of
affection; how often the landlord indulges in a bout of hard drinking;
and the state of control under which he is kept by the female head of
the establishment; nay, I can almost guess, from the general aspect of
the house, the exact weight and digestive capacity of mine host; for
if the inn promise well for the creature comforts, so will the
inn-keeper. And what can be more cheering to a tired wayfarer than to
be met at the door by a jolly red-faced old fellow--
"His fair round belly with fat capon lined"--
beefsteaks in the expression of his eye; his bald pate the fac-simile
of a rump of mutton; plum-puddings and apple-dumplings in every curve
of his chin; his body the living embodiment of a cask of beer
supported by two pipes of generous wine; the whole man overflowing
with rich juices and essences, gravies, and strong drinks--a
breathing incarnation of all the good things of life, whom to look
upon is to feel good-natured and happy in the present, and hopeful for
the future; such a man, in short, as mine host of the Golden Crown,
whose portrait I have endeavored to present.
[Illustration: MODEL LANDLORD.]
If there be any likeness between myself and the son, it certainly does
not extend to the father. He carries in his hands a steaming hot
plum-pudding; he is a model landlord, and delights in feeding his
customers. His voice is greasy like his face. When he laughs it is
from his capacious stomach the sounds come. His best jokes are based
upon his digestive organs. He gets a little boozy toward evening, but
that is merely a hospitable habit of his to prove that his liquors are
good. You commit yourself at once to his keeping with a delightful
consciousness that in his hands you are safe. He is not a man to
suffer an honest customer to starve. Nature, in her prodigality,
formed him upon a generous pattern. Whatever does other people good
likewise does him good. May he live a thousand years--mine host of the
Golden Crown!--and may his shadow never be less!