last letter about greater Scandinavia, for it is not only the capital and
chief city of the Grand Duchy of Finland, but it is the best point of
departure from the country for one whose pleasant tasks in these northern
lands are nearly finished. From here I can go by rail to St. Petersburg,
and thence to any other desirable spot on the earth’s surface; or I can
sail to Riga, to Stockholm, to a number of places on the German coast, or
to Hull in England, and, with only one change of steamer, can get back to
our best-loved America.
But I cannot leave Scandinavia without telling you something of this
interesting city, the center not only of the political life but of the
educational, literary, and artistic life of Finland.
The Russians have taken pains to make Helsingfors’ strong, strategic
position, impregnable from the military point of view. The entrance to
the inner harbor is so narrow that only one ship at a time can pass
between the frowning rocks, and the murderous guns of the forts are so
mounted that they can be turned against the foe, whether he approach by
land or sea.
A little way out from the inner harbor is a scattered group of frowning,
rocky islands fortified with the latest type of death-dealing cannon. At
the time of the Crimean War both France and England mustered their fleets
to take one of these islands, but found it impossible. To-day it would be
a still more difficult task.
If poverty makes strange bedfellows, international complications and
affiances make still stranger chums. Here are the bitter enemies of sixty
years ago hobnobbing together in these days of the _Entente cordiale_.
Republican France, constitutional Britain, and autocratic, reactionary
Russia, “as thick as thieves” (no opprobrious implication intended), and
working together with all the wiles and all the might of diplomacy to
offset and hold in check the Triple Alliance.
Speaking of politics and government, I would modestly recommend both the
suffragettes and the anti-suffragettes of England to study the experience
of Finland in regard to this burning subject. Here is the only European
country that totally ignores the word “male” in its suffrage regulations.
Every adult has a vote, and, as fifty-three per cent of the inhabitants
are women, they hold the much-dreaded balance of power which is such a
bugbear to the “antis” of Great Britain.
[Illustration: Fish Harbor, Helsingfors.]
Here is a country that is theoretically ruled by women, and yet there
has been no tremendous cataclysm of the forces of nature. The sun
rises and sets in Finland just as it used to do. People buy and sell
and get gain, fall in love, are married and given in marriage, die and
are buried, just as in the olden days. Theoretically the women could
tip every man out of his parliamentary seat and run the government to
suit themselves, but, strange to say, there are only seventeen women in
the Finnish Diet. Less than one tenth of all the members belong to the
terrible window-smashing sex, and one writer says of these seventeen:
“They are mostly of middle age, grave, and even portentously solemn. They
are apparently proof against all temptations of vanity. They dress with
Quakerish simplicity and are completely absorbed in their duties.”
Whether it is due to the influence of woman or not, Finland is an
exceedingly orderly and well-governed country, and it would be ruled
still better did not the medieval government at St. Petersburg veto
various measures relating to education and morals which would be for the
welfare of the country. For instance, as I told you before, the Diet
wants a larger measure of the prohibition of intoxicants, which the Czar
has forbidden. The Diet has voted for compulsory education, which the
imperial Romanoff, “with and by the consent of his ministers,” has also
disallowed.
Nevertheless, in spite of this handicap Finland is in many respects
the most progressive and best educated nation in Europe. Let the woman
suffragists get what comfort they can from these facts, and let the
suffragettes remember that in getting “votes for women” in Finland not
a single bomb was exploded, or a house burned to the ground, or a single
window broken by a wild and whirling female.
Until very recently there have been four estates in the Diet of Finland:
Nobles, Clergy, Burghers, and Peasants. In the last-named house Finland
was entirely unique. I have never heard of another nation that had a
“House of Peasants” to legislate for it, but it must be remembered that
many of these so-called peasants are very substantial farmers, and that
their power in a country like Finland is paramount, as it ought to be.
In 1906 the four estates were abolished, and now there is only one
legislative chamber, where representatives of all the people meet
together to legislate for the welfare of their beloved fatherland.
You may have thought that I was drawing a “long bow” when I said that
Finland was the best educated nation in the world, but I am prepared to
defend the proposition. I do not mean to say that classical or technical
education for the few has been carried to so high a point as in Germany,
though in this respect Finland is not lacking. But in the rudiments of a
sound education she is unsurpassed. It is scarcely an exaggeration to say
that every man, woman, and child of school age in Finland knows the three
“R’s”—“readin’, ’ritin’ and ’rithmetic”—and he can pursue his education
as much further as his time and inclination allow.
Think of the black belts of illiteracy in our own southland, of the
“Crackers” who have never tried to learn their letters, of the hordes
of newcomers to our shores, who could never get in if the reading test
were applied to them! I acknowledge that America has a far different
educational problem to deal with than compact, homogeneous Finland, but
it nevertheless remains true that from the standpoint of elementary
education Finland stands at the head of the class in the school of the
nations.
Most exemplary and commendable care is taken to provide for the physical
as well as the intellectual health of the children. I have not visited
many of these schools myself, and am indebted to Mr. Ernest Young for
the following facts. In the folk schools, which correspond to our public
primary and grammar schools, manual work and gymnastics are required, as
rigidly as study hours and recitations.
The General Architectural Council of Finland draws the plans for the
schoolhouses. These plans provide for such minute affairs as the
decorations of the rooms. In rooms facing the north, which will receive
little sunlight, especially in the long winter days, warm reds, yellows,
and greens are the prevailing tints; in the warmer rooms that face
the south colder tones are used. There are no square corners for the
accumulation of dust. The boys and girls have separate dressing rooms,
and the newer buildings are provided with shower baths. Overcoats are
hung up in the cloakrooms or corridors, and there is not only a separate
place for each class, but a little closet for each pupil. Each of these
is provided with a peg, a shelf for caps and bags, a stand for the
umbrella, and a pigeonhole for the indispensable goloshes. Accommodations
for snowshoes, sledges, skis, and bicycles are also provided. Every
folk school in the country must have a playground and enough free land
connected with it to furnish a garden plot for the teacher and pupils.
The government is so fatherly, not to say motherly, as to ordain that the
girls’ desks shall be provided with a pincushion.
Coeducation has no terror for the Finns, and boys and girls are educated
together from the primary school to the time of their graduation at the
university. Parents who are afraid of the effects of “calf love” from
coeducation may perhaps be reassured by a remark quoted from a Finnish
schoolgirl: “We may fall in love when we are at school,” she said, “but
never with a boy in the same school as ourselves. You see, we know them
too well.” You may be permitted, Judicia, if you desire to do so, to
doubt the sweeping generalization of this young lady.
Finland must be a perfect paradise in summertime for poor and sickly
children. They are not left to the occasional ministrations of some
benevolent individual or voluntary society for a glimpse of the
country, but, if they need an out-of-door holiday, they are sent by the
municipality of Helsingfors into the country for a week, or a month, or
three months, as the case may be, to recover health and strength in the
holiday camps. That there is nothing haphazard about this municipal
benevolence is shown by the fact that a public medical officer sends
these poor children into the country and weighs and measures them before
each holiday to know how much they have profited by it.
The morals of the children are looked after as well as their physical and
mental training. Children who wish to go to any place of public amusement
must ask permission of the head master of the school, unless they have
distinct permission from their parents, and in many schools, even where
parents give permission, the head master must be informed of it before
the pupil goes to any public show. Every encouragement is given to poor
and ambitious children who desire to pursue their education through the
university. Free food, free clothes, and school books are provided for
those whose parents absolutely cannot furnish them.
Helsingfors is the center of educational Finland, for here is the great
college called the Alexander University, in grateful remembrance of
Finland’s first Russian Grand Duke, the well-beloved Alexander I. When
graduation time comes, each faculty in the schools of theology, law,
medicine, and philosophy confers separate degrees. When the degrees are
conferred, a cannon booms from the parapet near by in honor of each
graduate, and the band welcomes him to his new honors with stately music.
Instead of the gorgeous hoods displaying as many colors as Joseph’s coat,
with which our own degrees are conferred, the Masters of Arts in Finland
receive a gold ring, and the Doctors a silk-covered hat.
A beautiful motto is set over the door of _Studentshuset_, or “Students’
House,” the common meeting place of the students of both sexes. This was
built by subscriptions voluntarily given by people in all parts of the
country, and the motto over the door is, “Given by the Fatherland to its
Hope.” No motto could better tell the ardent love of Finland for the
higher education of its youth.
But you ask me, Judicia, “What of Helsingfors itself?” the city from
which I have dated my letter. Well, it does not differ greatly from other
European cities, when you look upon it superficially, for in its present
aspect it is distinctively modern. Like all large Finnish towns, it has
been burned down more than once, and after its last great conflagration,
less than a century ago, its architects seem to have copied for the
most part the models set them by other cities, for that was before a
distinctive type of Finnish architecture began to make its appearance.
Many of the streets are broad and lined with handsome houses and business
blocks and public buildings. The University and the Art Museum are
substantial but not imposing buildings, while the inadequate Diet House,
as I told you, would soon be replaced by another if only Czar Nicholas
would give his imperial permission.
In the center of one of the principal squares is a splendid statue of
Alexander II, which a grateful people often decorate with wreaths to this
day, as they remember the man who gave them back their liberties. One
would think that no Russian bureaucrat to-day, intent upon taking away
the liberties of the people, could look on this statue without a glow of
inward shame.
The great church which dominates Helsingfors is St. Nicholas, which
stands on a sightly eminence near the center of the city, and is a fine
specimen of the Greek style of architecture. Here the state functions are
observed, and here during my stay a great Christian Endeavor meeting was
held which gave me an opportunity to see as fine a congregation of men
and women, young and old, as one could see in any land beneath the sun.
Though the St. Nicholas is the largest and most popular church in the
city, there is another whose architecture is far more remarkable, for it
is the latest Finnish word in church building. It has the most massive
and stately granite tower that I have seen on any church in Europe. It,
too, stands upon a hill, and half a dozen streets seem to converge to
it, so that whenever you lift up your eyes from almost any quarter of
the city there is this magnificent tower, solemn, imposing, majestic,
a conception which only a Finnish architect would dare to execute. The
tower quite dwarfs the rest of the church, and from some points of view
it seems to be all tower.
The audience room is of no inconsiderable size, and is better adapted for
singing than for speaking. A fine organ in three sections, one in the
front of the church, one in the rear, and one in the tower, whose notes
seem to drop down as from heaven, render the musical services of unusual
interest. If you should hear “Suomi’s Song” in this unique church, with
its solemn and intensely patriotic cadences and words, you would better
understand the love of the Finns for their country.
I have not space to tell you much of the literature of Finland, nor
could I were my space unlimited, for much of the best of it has not been
translated into English. As one has said: “A mere glance at a Finnish
grammar, with its sixteen cases for the nouns and its host of grammatical
complexities, gives one a humorous notion that it might have been
perfected for the purpose of preventing any other nation from knowing
anything about the beauties that it enshrines.”
However, some of the works of the beloved author Runeberg have been
translated under the title _Ensign Stals Song_. I have already quoted
from the _Kalevala_, the great epic of Finland, so admirably translated
by Mr. Kirby and published in the “Everyman Library.” Of this poem Max
Müller says: “It should have a place in the literature of the world, on
the same shelf with the poems of Homer, the _Niebelungen_, and other
great epics which the world will not willingly let die.”
After all, interesting as is the country, the architecture, the
literature, and the social customs, the most interesting thing about
Finland is the Finn himself. His sturdiness, his good sense, his
progressive spirit, his willingness to try experiments, but always under
the ægis of the Goddess of Law and Order; his healthy conservatism, his
wise radicalism, his love of liberty, his hatred of tyranny—all combine
to make one of the most interesting individuals on the face of the earth.
I am glad that so many Finns have come to America, and that more are
coming. They add the best possible element to our body politic. They do
not herd together in the purlieus of our great cities, but for the most
part spread themselves out over the limitless farmlands of the west,
though some of them find employment in our manufacturing cities. Driven
away from their home land by hard conditions of life or by the tyranny
of their oppressors, three hundred thousand of them have found homes in
the United States. Intelligent, law-abiding, liberty-loving, there is no
better American than the Finnish American.
I do not know, Judicia, whether my poor letters have made you feel the
charm of these sturdy, wholesome, homelike nations of the far north,
whose fascination lies not so much in their art as in the varied beauties
of the natural scenery and in the character of the people themselves,
but, as for me, I must confess that I have fallen completely under the
spell of Greater Scandinavia.
Faithfully yours,
PHILLIPS.
AYLMER WRITES OF NORWAY AND DENMARK
FIRST LETTER
Aylmer explains his purpose in the letters he will write; from
Germany to Denmark by ferry; the Danebrog; the wounded soldier;
Harald Bluetooth and other characters of the past; Roskilde;
the arrival in Copenhagen; certain of the Great Danes;
“Bil-Jonen Teatret” and “The Hurricane Girls.”
COPENHAGEN, December 3.
MY DEAR JUDICIA,
Here I am in “Merchants’ Harbor,” alias Kopmannaehafn, alias Axelhus,
etc., but more anon of it and its names. First I must tell you about the
trip here. Please don’t misunderstand my use of the word “trip.” I refuse
to write you about “My Trip” as such. In other words, I am not going to
personally conduct you by letter through Denmark and Norway. Thomas Cook
and Thomas Bennett and James Currie and Mr. Baedeker, and many other good
men, will do that for you by book. All I shall do is to keep my mind
open to the pleasures and charms of these two countries, and when they
cast their spell on me I shall try to make you feel it as I do. In other
words, I am not going to be intimidated into having raptures over what
the guide book stars, and, if I choose, I am going to like what it does
not star. Furthermore, I am not going to take you on any set tour, for I
don’t expect to take any such myself but I do expect to see a good many
places in these closely united countries, and when anything appeals to me
I shall describe it, in the hope that it may appeal equally to you.
Rather a long preamble to my first letter, isn’t it? But I trust it will
make my idea plain and that you will not be disappointed if I don’t act
in the capacity of courier. I said good-by to Germany and continental
Europe yesterday noon at Warnemünde. Our train was trundled aboard the
_Prinz Christian_, though I cannot state for which of Denmark’s many
royal “Christians” it was named, and we had a two-hour sea voyage,
during which it was evident from the pensive demeanor of some of my
fellow passengers that seasickness was “not unknown,” as Baedeker would
euphoniously say.
During this sea voyage we were supposed to take our noon meal, which I
must now begin to call _middag_, and as I am by nature furnished with a
good appetite I didn’t resist the invitation. Most of the ladies were
“pensive” and remained on deck gasping, but the men, all wearing a look
of conceited amusement, nonchalantly sought the dining cabin. I had heard
much about the famous Danish _smörrebröd_, and I was keenly anticipating
it, but I am sorry to say that _Prinz Christian_ was too much under
foreign influence and did not offer the full glories of _smörrebröd_,
which I found later here in Copenhagen. However, I will keep you for
awhile in breathless suspense on that point.
Most of the people on the boat seemed to be Germans or Danes, and one
couple opposite me at _middag_ I must describe. This “couple” consisted
of a very big father and a very little son. The father was one of the
greatest of the Great Danes, physically at least. I have hardly ever
seen such a huge man. The son seemed to be ten or twelve years old, but
he was as much below the average in size as his father was above it. The
Great Dane seemed to think that strong, black coffee was the thing to
make his infinitesimal son grow, and he made him drink three big cups of
it. Father and son were the most stolid pair I have ever seen, but the
little fellow was very miserable and wore a face as though he were taking
medicine. He would gulp down all the coffee he could stand, then gasp for
breath and look appealingly at his father, who stolidly urged him on. It
was very pathetic, but at least I had the comfort of knowing that coffee
could never ruin his nerves, for it was plain that he had none.
All this time I would not have yielded so calmly to the demands of the
inner man if it had not been that there was nothing to see. _Prinz
Christian_ was enveloped in a dense fog, and the limit of the view was
a few yards of gray, tossing sea. But in spite of the fog, our noble
captain steered straight for the ferry slip. A little jolting and bumping
and clanking of chains, and we were on Danish soil.
By a miracle, which I think must have been performed largely for my
benefit, the fog immediately rolled away. I refused then and I still
refuse to believe those lugubrious writers who characterize Denmark’s
winter as long and dreary and muddy. Certainly I couldn’t ask for finer
weather than I have had during the thirty-six hours I have been in the
country. I am open to conviction on that point, but the pessimist must
produce something a good deal worse than the present weather before I
will believe him.
I had not been on Danish soil two minutes before I saw the Danish flag,
the world-famous _Danebrog_, waving over a schoolhouse. It was very
striking, with its bold white cross on a vivid red background. There
is a beautiful legend connected with the origin of this flag. It seems
that “once upon a time” King Valdemar, being filled with holy zeal
(possibly augmented by unholy greed), made an expedition against the
heathen inhabitants of Esthonia. At first they submitted in crowds and
were baptized. But when the novelty of being converted began to wear off,
they turned against the evangelist king and fought furiously. “At this,”
says the chronicle, “like Moses of old, Andres Sunesön (the archbishop)
mounted the hill with his bishops and clerks, that they might lay the
sword of prayer in the scales of battle; but when his arms dropped at
last through weariness, his people began to fly. Then his brethren
supported the old man’s hands, and as long as they were held up the Danes
conquered.”
At this point a miracle occurred. The banner of the Danes had been lost
in the fray, and to repair the loss “a red banner with the holy cross in
white on it came floating gently down through the clouds.” King Valdemar
gathered his men under this heavenly banner and had no further trouble
in defeating the heathen (and gaining their desirable territory).
This king, by the way, was Valdemar den Seir, or the “Victorious.” Danish
history fairly bristles with Valdemars, and even now there is a prince by
that name.
The scenery all the way from Gjedser, the haven of the ferry from
Warnemünde, smiled at us, at least until darkness erased the smile. The
Danes have only one hill in their whole country, and that is far away in
Jutland, but the flatness of the islands of Laaland and Zealand through
which we pass does not make for monotony. Everywhere the landscape smiles
cordially, warmly, invitingly. Really the landscape’s invitation was
so genuine that I could hardly resist getting off at one of the little
stations _en route_.
Most of the farmhouses are built of plaster with interlacing framework
of wooden beams, which would make them Elizabethan, wouldn’t it, if they
were a little more pretentious? The windmills are a cross between the
ancient kind with four huge wings and the modern kind with many little
spokes. They presented the appearance of Ferris wheels one third life
size.
At the station of Kjöge a young soldier got on the train and I was
shocked to note that he was badly wounded on the head, for he wore
there a broad white bandage. I was pouring out my sympathy on the poor
wounded soldier lad when he turned around, and it was not until then that
I discovered that his “bandage” was a ridiculous blue and white cap,
perched far on the off side of his head. I have since seen many of these
“wounded” soldiers, and I can never quite control my amusement when I see
a great strapping fellow with one of these foolish little caps fastened
to the side of his head. In appearance they are like the caps that you
find in the snapdragons at a children’s party.
About some other things Denmark seems very naïve. The smokestacks on
all the engines have little bands of red and blue adorning them. Really
they are cunning enough to play with. Also some of the railway cars are
double-deckers, two-story affairs, while others are absolutely open like
an electric car. They remind me of the pictures of the “first train in
America—1820.”
Also the language is most delicious at times. A very frequent sign reads:
_Ikke Spytte Paa Gulvet_. When you know that _ikke_ means “not” and that
_gulvet_ means the “floor,” Chaucer will come to your aid for the rest.
Pronounce that sign phonetically and see if you don’t feel as though you
were stroking a kitten.
[Illustration: _Copyright by Underwood & Underwood, N. Y._
Copenhagen Exchange.]