[Illustration: Riddarholm’s Church, Stockholm]
COUSIN-HUNTING
IN SCANDINAVIA
BY
MARY WILHELMINE WILLIAMS
_ILLUSTRATED_
[Illustration]
BOSTON: RICHARD G. BADGER
TORONTO: THE COPP CLARK CO., LIMITED
COPYRIGHT, 1916, BY MARY W. WILLIAMS
All Rights Reserved
The Gorham Press, Boston, U. S. A.
Made in the United States of America
TO MY FRIEND
ELLA MAY ADAMS
PREFACE
As every one knows, the mother land of the American nation is England.
But what is the _grandmother_ land? A short glance at England’s
past will show that it is Scandinavia. Though the English people
are exceedingly composite, there exists in them a very important
Scandinavian strain. The Northern blood was contributed primarily
by two great immigrations directly from Scandinavia, and one from
Normandy, by people only a century and a half removed from Scandinavia;
but it should be borne in mind also that the somewhat mysterious Jutes,
Angles, and Saxons, whose continental home was in the peninsula of
Jutland and about its base, must have borne a very close relationship
to their contemporaries and neighbors to the north.
With the introduction of Scandinavian blood came Scandinavian manners
and customs which made an impress upon the English population only
recently recognized.
Of the various parts of Europe which contributed elements to the
English people during their formative period, Scandinavia is the only
one whose population has remained relatively pure and in the original
home, unjostled and unmixed by foreign invasions. Thus it happens that
the English people are more closely related to those of Scandinavia,
in blood and in manners and customs, than they are to the inhabitants
of any other European country. Hence, Scandinavia is the _grandmother_
land of the American people.
We know the English fairly well, but with the Scandinavians, who have
more in common with us than any other Europeans except the English,
our acquaintance is of the slightest. Books in plenty, descriptive
of present-day Scandinavia, are in existence, but they somehow fail
to present the Scandinavians as definite personalities. My aim in
writing this narrative has been to introduce to my fellow Americans
in as intimate manner as possible their Scandinavian kindred, who are
still living in the ancient ancestral homestead—the Grandmother Land.
In my efforts to establish a real acquaintance between the branch of
the family which has wandered and that which has remained at home, I
have purposely omitted the more conventional and more obvious part of
my experiences in Scandinavia in order to give place and emphasis to
the homely details which help to bring out the characteristics of the
Scandinavians and their home land, and to show them as they really are.
In the preparation of this book I have received aid of various sorts
from many people—so many that to list the names of all to whom I feel
indebted would be a most perplexing undertaking. Consequently, I make
only this general acknowledgment of obligation.
Mary Wilhelmine Williams.
2207 N. Charles Street,
Baltimore, Maryland,
May 28, 1916.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. THE ENTRANCE INTO SCANDINAVIA; COPENHAGEN 11
II. MORE ABOUT COPENHAGEN; THE COPENHAGENERS’
COUNTRY GARDENS 38
III. BORNHOLM AND THE BORNHOLMERS 54
IV. AN INTRODUCTION TO SWEDEN: LUND, HELSINGBORG,
GOTHENBURG 82
V. JOURNEYING ACROSS SWEDEN; STOCKHOLM 96
VI. THE TWO UPPSALAS; GEFLE AND SÖDERHAMN 120
VII. DALECARLIA AND THE DALECARLIANS 144
VIII. TRONDHJEM AND MOLDE; THE NORWEGIAN
FIORDS 159
IX. BERGEN AND CHRISTIANIA 183
X. COPENHAGEN ONCE MORE; CASTLES IN
DENMARK 202
XI. ROSKILDE AND ODENSE; GOOD-BY TO SCANDINAVIA 227
INDEX 237
ILLUSTRATIONS
Riddarholm’s Church, Stockholm _Frontispiece_
_Facing Page_
City Hall and Palace Hotel, Copenhagen 32
Rosenborg Castle 32
“Denmark,” by Elizabeth Jerichau-Baumann 40
Grave Monument, by Rudolf Tegnér 40
Bornholm’s Museum and Saint Morten’s Street, Rönne 58
Bridge Crossing the Old Moat at Hammershuus Castle 58
Harvest Time in Bornholm 74
Österlars Church, Bornholm 74
Ezias Tegnér 92
Statue of Gustav Adolf, Gothenburg 92
Statue of Birger Jarl, Stockholm 108
Museum of the North, Stockholm 108
Selma Lagerlöf 112
Interior of One of the Ancient Swedish Houses at
“Skansen,” Stockholm 112
Gamla Uppsala Church 132
Choir of Gamla Uppsala Church 132
A Quaint House in Rättvik 156
Rättvikers on Their Way to Church 156
Gargoyle on Trondhjem Cathedral 172
Romsdal Fiord, Showing Horn 172
A Norwegian “Maud Muller” 178
Piling Codfish in Söholt 178
Rosenkrantz Tower and Haakon’s Hall, Bergen 186
Norwegian Mountain Homes 186
Above the Timber Line in Norway 192
Statue of Henrik Ibsen by Sinding 192
Stork Fountain, Copenhagen 220
Statue of Holger Danske at Marienlyst 220
Roskilde Cathedral 234
Hans Andersen’s House 234
COUSIN HUNTING IN
SCANDINAVIA
CHAPTER I
THE ENTRANCE INTO SCANDINAVIA; COPENHAGEN
COPENHAGEN, DENMARK,
July 20, 191—
_Dear Cynthia_:
Here I am at last, all safe and sound, in the land of the Viking—the
land of my ancestors. In fact, several days have passed since my
wandering feet first touched Danish soil; but I have been so absorbed
with my initial explorations of this snug little country, which is
still “home” to my mother, that I have been neglecting my own home and
friends in the dear Far Western World.
Last Friday morning I left Kiel for Korsör, which is upon Seeland, the
largest island of Denmark. A glorious, cloudless sky was overhead; and
the Baltic about us was a vast, shimmering, rippling liquid plain of
changing blues and greens over which our boat, the _Prince Sigismund_,
smoothly and rapidly passed. About two hours after leaving Germany I
secured my first glimpse of Danish territory; Langeland (Long Land),
with low, white cliffs—modest imitations of Shakespeare’s “pale and
white-faced shore”—loomed up on the left. Our boat kept close enough
to the island to give us a good view of the rolling coast, marked
off in patches of light fields and dark forests, with here and there
glimpses of quaint farm houses and windmills of the “Dutch” variety. To
the right, faint and far away, was a misty suggestion of the cliffs of
Laaland (Low Land), a larger island of the Danish archipelago; but so
like Langeland did its vague outline appear as to seem the very ghost
or double of it.
While we were still passing between these two southern outposts of
Denmark, luncheon was announced. Some of the passengers promptly went
below to the dining salon, but many had their refreshments served on
little tables on the open deck. I was among the latter. Most of the
people about me were evidently Germans going to Denmark or Danes or
other Scandinavians returning home after visits of business or pleasure
in Germany. To them it was a voyage frequently made, and they preferred
the deck to the dining salon merely because it was pleasanter. But to
me, an American of Scandinavian parentage, it was such a very important
occasion that I was determined to see as much as possible, during this
first view, of the land in which, for centuries—for thousands of
years—my forefathers and foremothers had lived and died.
The part of the Baltic which separates the island of Fünen from the
island of Seeland, upon which Copenhagen is situated, is called by
the Danes “Store Baelt”—the Great Belt. As I have told you, for
my crossing, the waters of the Great Belt rippled charmingly under
the gentle stroke of the summer breeze; and the islands beckoned
invitingly to the front and the left and the right. This seascape and
landscape was as different as possible from the mental picture which
the name Great Belt had long summoned to my mind. Since studying
Scandinavian history I had most frequently thought of the strait as
heavily bridged with ice, and of the Danish islands as paralyzed under
the dominion of the Frost King. For this was the state of affairs one
February day two hundred and fifty odd years ago. And the bridge of
ice was so strong and so thick as to tempt Charles X of Sweden—who
had been recently moved to make a belligerent call upon his nearest
neighbor to the south—to march several thousand horse and foot
soldiers over the bridge, via the smaller islands to the right hand,
and to threaten the Danish capital. In consequence of the Swedish
king’s pressing attentions, Frederick III of Denmark, who had been to a
considerable extent to blame for the quarrel, decided to buy peace by
means of the treaty of Roskilde. This gave to the Swedes a half dozen
Danish provinces, including some in the southern part of the present
Sweden, which had long been Danish soil.
It soon became evident, however, that Charles intended to make use of
the army which he maintained in Denmark for the purpose of wringing
still further concessions from his humiliated neighbor. Naturally,
Denmark did not agree to the new demands with the desired alacrity,
and King Frederick declared that he would die like a bird in its nest
rather than surrender to Charles. Whereupon the Swedish king vowed that
he would wipe the Danish nest off the map, and soon had laid siege to
Copenhagen. But the Danish people worked as one man and helped save
their capital by hurling upon the enemy an avalanche of artillery fire,
stones, and hot water. Much aid was also given to the Danes by the
Dutch fleet, which slipped past the Swedish guns guarding the Sound
to the north and arrived in time. Soon the tables were turned. The
Swedes were defeated and driven out of the land, and in the end Denmark
recovered some of the territory which she had lost. And little Denmark
still stands, somewhat pared away, to be sure, in the course of the
centuries by one enemy or another, but with the great heart of her—the
most Danish part—still intact and still beating, an independent nation
of busy, healthy, happy people.
While I was still meditating upon Charles X’s crossing of the Great
Belt and the exciting events which followed, the _Prince Sigismund_
slipped swiftly into the harbor of Korsör, a place rimmed with
low-built, cosy-looking houses. As soon as we landed, a giant in
buttons and bars “shooed” us into the customs house. He was a giant
of the harmless, friendly sort, and as soon as the inspection of my
baggage was over he hunted up a porter for me. The porter was a blond,
guileless-appearing individual, possessed of astonishingly modest ideas
of his own worth. He weighed my trunk and put it on the Copenhagen
train, carried my two suit cases to an “ikke-röge” (smoking not
allowed) compartment of the same train, and then announced the charge
for his services to be ten öre—less than three cents!
The train which I boarded, like most passenger trains in Europe, was
divided into compartments for accommodating about six people, each
compartment opening into a narrow corridor running the whole length of
the car. The compartment in which I rode was third class, but it was
very clean and was quite satisfactory for a short journey. The seats
were not upholstered, but they were more comfortable than the average
church pew. On the walls were several attractive photographic views of
Danish landscapes, and a map of Denmark. There was also the customary
notice prohibiting spitting upon the floor. My only companions in the
compartment were a rosy-cheeked Danish mother and two chubby, blue-eyed
little boys. Each of the little chaps had a tiny shovel and a tin
bucket, still bearing traces of sand. They had evidently spent the day
at the beach.
As the train rolled placidly along, I had pleasant glimpses of Seeland
through the car window. The otherwise monotonous level of the land
was broken by the variety of color and form: there was a constant
alternation of dark forests and light fields, of thatched-roof farm
houses and huge windmills; and occasionally there appeared men and
women cultivating the crops. Now and then we passed through a town,
and in one of them, Roskilde, I obtained a view of the spires of the
fine old cathedral towering above the tops of the trees clustering
around it, and far above the broad red-tiled roofs of the houses in the
foreground. I shall visit Roskilde upon my return.
Soon we were at our destination. It took just two hours to pass from
Korsör to Copenhagen—to cross Denmark’s largest island; and the fare
which I paid was the equivalent of eighty-five cents in American
money—about one-third of what it would have been if I had come first
class. To an American used to the long transcontinental journey in her
own land, Denmark seems so very, very tiny.
As you doubtless know, I have cousins in Copenhagen, but I did not
write to them of my intended visit because I wished to make my first
acquaintance with Denmark’s capital by independent exploration;
therefore, at the Central Station I took a drosky for a hotel. And
at the hotel I secured a comfortable room, supplied with a generous
portion of windows and furnished in blues and greens and browns blended
according to Danish ideas of the artistic. My exploration of Copenhagen
began with my bed-room. I wish that you could see my bed and my stove,
Cynthia; they are marvels to American eyes. The bed is a veritable
mountain of feathers; whole flocks of geese must have contributed their
substance toward its construction. Not only are there several strata
of feather pillows upon which to lie, but the coverlet is also of
down, puffy and fluffy, and of smothering thickness. At night I cast
most of the components of the bed in a heap upon the floor, cap off
the pile with the coverlet, and sleep in peace under the top sheet and
the steamer rug which I purchased in New York. It is not a bad plan to
carry along one’s blankets when one is traveling.
When, as a child, you read the story of the “Princess and the Pea,”
didn’t you feel that Andersen stretched the truth a little in his
solemn assertion that the old queen put _twenty_ mattresses on top
of the pea, and _twenty_ eider-down beds on top of the mattresses? I
certainly did; but I doubt no longer. Since, in these modern times, a
hotel bed for plain folks contains the number and variety of mattresses
and feather beds which mine does, I am willing to believe that in times
past on an extraordinary occasion Denmark’s queen used an _unlimited_
quantity of downy layers in making up the royal “spare bed.” Whether or
not the true princess felt the pea through the forty-strata mountain is
another question.
The Danes call heating apparatuses like the one in my room a
“kakkelovn,” and they show discrimination and taste in doing so; no
such simple word as “stove” could adequately indicate the dignity and
majesty of the structure which fills the corner of my room from floor
almost to lofty ceiling. The edifice bears a striking resemblance to
the picture of the Tower of Babel which appeared in the “Child’s Bible”
of my juvenile days. Though its proportions are slimmer, its general
style is the same; a series of stories—each one slightly smaller than
the one next below—mount ambitiously skyward. Far above my head is the
summit, crowned with a shining nickel ornament, and near the base is a
door opening into the fire-box. There is enough cast iron in the tower
to make several fair-sized American heaters.
The days since my arrival have been so balmy that the giant stove has
not been called upon for service; but I gladly warrant its efficiency,
for it bears a strong family resemblance to a more modest-appearing
structure called a “kachelofen,” which kept my room in Germany
comfortable last winter in the worst below-zero weather. These “kakkel”
stoves are lined with brick and retain the heat remarkably well. They
are a vast improvement upon the English open-grate fire which permits
one to freeze on one side while he roasts on the other.
On the very afternoon of my arrival, without even stopping to unpack my
suit-case, I took a walk about Copenhagen. I just could not wait; all
of the sights and sounds which came to me through my wide-open windows
seemed to blend into one distinct personality and to call to me to come
forth and become acquainted. Copenhagen has decidedly the most distinct
personality that I have ever sensed in any city. This interesting
capital seems very old and very wise, but not too old and not too wise
to sympathize with youth and unwisdom. It is like an ancient lady
with silvery hair and strongly-lined face, who yet has warm red blood
pulsing through her heart and a merry twinkle in her blue eyes; a very
charming dame, Cynthia, and altogether lovable. Once out upon the
streets, moving along with the pedestrians, I felt quite at home. I was
no longer a stranger in a strange land.
Perhaps the fact that familiar words met my ears was the chief element
in my sense of homelikeness. My ability to understand Danish and to
speak it—after a fashion—contributed much toward placing me upon a
friendly basis toward Copenhagen. But the Copenhageners’ knowledge of
English was also a tremendous help. An astonishing proportion of the
population speak English. Most of the younger half have studied it in
the schools; and some have become acquainted with the language through
residence in England or the United States. I promptly met one of the
latter group. A short distance down the street I noticed some large red
gooseberries of a variety which is edible raw. I have never seen them
in the United States, but became fond of them in Germany; so I wanted
some. As I could not remember the Danish name for the fruit, I simply
pointed to it and asked for ten öres’ worth. While measuring out the
berries, the salesman surprised me by asking, in good English, “What
is the English name for these?” I told him, and he evidently promptly
catalogued me as an American experimenting with the King’s Danish; for
he proceeded to remark that he had seen berries of somewhat similar
appearance in “the States,” where he had spent a few years. I replied
that it was pleasant to find people in the shops who could speak
English. “Sure!” said he, whereupon I was quite convinced that he had
been in “the States.”
Until the middle of the twelfth century the place which later became
Denmark’s capital was but a small fishing port. Facing, as it did,
the Baltic, which was at the time infested by the piratical Wends,
whose homes were on the southern shore, this portion of Seeland was
very open to attack; and probably was also frequently a resort for
sea-robbers. But a change came soon after the great warrior-priest,
Axel—or Absalon, as he was later called—was made archbishop of
Lund. This was in the stirring days of King Waldemar the Great, and
the frontier bishop’s office was far from a sinecure; repeatedly,
Absalon interrupted services at the altar in order to seize the
sword and to pursue the enemies of his land and his religion. And
eventually the struggle ended by the conquest of the Wendish heathen
and their conversion to Christianity. But before this, Copenhagen was
founded. During his campaigns against the Wends, Absalon strongly
fortified the obscure little fishing port. At first the stronghold
bore the name Axelshuus, or Absalon’s House, but as time passed the
important commercial town which grew up around it came to be called
“Kiöbmaenshavn,” which in Danish means “Merchants’ Haven.” Copenhagen
is merely the English corruption of the modern Danish name, Kiöbenhavn.
The name of Bishop Absalon, as you see, is one which is written large
in Danish history; and, in the long centuries which have passed since
his day, Copenhagen has not forgotten his services. Close to the
Island of the Castle, or Slotsholmen, on which once stood the fortress
erected by him, is a conspicuous equestrian statue of Absalon; and on
guard over the entrance to the new town hall, or Raadhuset, is another
sculptured figure of the great Dane who went forth with the cross in
one hand and the sword in the other.
But to my thinking, at least, Denmark’s prehistoric past is of more
interest than her early Christian history. Consequently, I went, the
day after my arrival, to the National Museum. This is in the heart
of the old Copenhagen, just opposite Slotsholmen. The building which
houses the national collection was first erected in the seventeenth
century; and it was rebuilt in 1744, as a residence for a Danish
prince, for which reason it is still called “Prinsens Palais.” About
sixty years ago it was converted into a museum; and, though it is a
homely old structure, the Prince’s Palace is spacious and well lighted,
and hence is well suited to its present use.
On the walls of the courtyard are memorial tablets to Rasmus Nyerup
and to Jens Jacob Asmussen Worsaae, the founder of Danish archæology.
To see these tablets was like coming across mementoes of old friends;
for Nyerup and Worsaae have done much toward making rough ways smooth
and crooked paths straight for all who care to learn what the ancient
Scandinavians were like. And within the vestibule of the building
stands a marble bust of Christian Jürgensen Thomsen, the man to
whom Denmark is most indebted for bringing together the collections
exhibited in the museum.
But it is neither Nyerup, Worsaae, nor Thomsen to whom belongs the
final credit for Denmark’s pre-eminence in things archæological.
That must go to the Danish people, whose unusual interest has been
indispensable in making the national archæological exhibit the most
complete possessed by any nation, except Norway and Sweden. But
there is no mystery connected with the Scandinavian zeal for things
prehistoric; it has a sound historical basis, which is akin to family
pride. No other peoples of Europe have so long held the soil now
occupied by them as have the Scandinavians. In fact, the ancestors
of the modern Scandinavians reached the northwest of Europe even
before they were Scandinavians; it was only during the long centuries
following their arrival that they acquired the physical and mental
characteristics which distinguish them from other peoples of Teutonic
stock. When my pre-Scandinavian forefathers and foremothers came into
the present Scandinavian lands, a thousand years or so before the birth
of Christ, they were in the New Stone Age of culture. And while nations
rose and fell in other parts of Europe—while Celt fell before Roman,
and Roman before Teuton, and Teuton before Saracen and Slav—the people
who were becoming Scandinavians remained isolated in their northern
land, frequently quarreling among themselves, it is true, but unjostled
and uninvaded by alien blood. Consequently, to the modern Scandinavians
practically all archæological remains found in the land seem almost
ancestral relics, and, naturally, they take a tremendous interest in
them.
The exhibits are arranged in the museum in chronological order,
beginning with the Old Stone Age, and visitors are expected to follow
Denmark’s cultural development progressively. I know, because I
unwittingly entered first one of the rooms containing exhibits from the
late Middle Ages, and the vigilant guard courteously but firmly showed
me to the door on the opposite side of the vestibule. I was not to be
permitted to get an inverted idea of Denmark’s past, even if I wished
to do so.
The earliest part of the Old Stone Age in Denmark is represented in the
museum by a section of a kitchen midden, or shell mound. The primeval
settlers of Scandinavia did not live in the days of patent garbage cans
and incinerators; hence, after a feast of raw or baked clams or oysters
on the half shell, they dumped the shells upon the community refuse
heap—and thus were saved dish-washing. When they feasted on mammals
and birds, the bones were thrown upon the same garbage pile; but the
middens are mostly made up of shells, for shell fish—especially
oysters—were wonderfully abundant in the Baltic in the Old Stone days,
and could be had for the digging.
I was particularly interested in this _bona fide_, primitive Danish
garbage heap because a few years ago I saw a midden of the same general
character, left by the ancestors of the American Indians, when they
were at the same stage of culture as the makers of the Danish shell
mounds. Perhaps I have told you before of the midden which I saw in
California. It was near Point Richmond, on the shores of San Francisco
Bay; but as the land on which it stood has long been sinking, it had
been partially carried away by the waves. On the other hand, since the
coast of Denmark is rising, many of the Danish middens are now far
inland. But the two kinds of prehistoric garbage heaps bore a striking
resemblance to each other; both were made up largely of shells,
interspersed here and there with bones.
Until the middle of the last century, the world believed that the many
heaps of shells, mixed with bones, found here and there on the coasts
of Denmark, were merely due to the in-wash of the sea waves. Professor
Worsaae it was who discovered their true origin. In 1850 he proved them
to be of human formation. Though this seems a very simple discovery, it
was a very important one in archæology, for it explained similar mounds
in other parts of the world, and it led to a most careful investigation
of the Danish middens, resulting in the disclosure of fragments of
weapons and utensils which threw light upon a people whose one-time
existence the Danish archæologists had hitherto not even suspected.
But though we are introduced familiarly to their garbage heaps and to
a few of their personal belongings, much uncertainty exists regarding
the midden-builders of Denmark’s Old Stone Age. We know, to be sure,
that they probably lived in huts of boughs and skins, or in caves; that
their food was fish and game, with perhaps roots and berries; that they
could manufacture a very rough sort of pottery; that their weapons and
implements were of the most crudely-worked stone. But of how these
ancients themselves appeared, whence they came, and whither they went,
we know nothing. It seems pretty certain that they were a different
people from the ancestors of the modern Scandinavians. Indeed, some
scientists have suggested that the midden people were members of the
yellow race, probably related to the Eskimo, or to the Lapp. And in the
absence of proof this theory will do as well as any other.
The people from whom the Scandinavians evolved came later, as I said
before—in Denmark’s New Stone Age. It would be more accurate, I
presume, to say that they brought the New Stone Age with them; for when
they reached the Scandinavian cradle-land they already knew how to chip
stone into accurately shaped implements and weapons, and how to put on
a finishing polish when the proper shape had been obtained. However,
these early immigrants learned much in their new home about working
in stone, and in Scandinavia the New Stone period attained unusual
perfection. This was because the isolation of the region delayed the
introduction of a knowledge of work in metals. With all due respect to
the Neolithic Danes, I feel bound to remark that, given a sufficiently
long period of apprenticeship and a reduction of the number of
distracting and discouraging elements, most people would be able to
reach a high standard.
Nevertheless, when one wanders through the archæological collection
one becomes quickly convinced that these primitive Scandinavians were
master workmen. On the shelves behind the glass doors are extensive
exhibits of stone hammers and axes and other objects, in a great
variety of graceful and beautiful patterns—wonderfully symmetrical
where symmetry was aimed for, and with a smoothness of finish that
has resisted the vicissitudes of thousands of years. In those early
handicraft days such work was an art as well as a science; and surely
the craftsmen loved their labor, else they could not have exercised
the patience necessary to the attainment of such excellence. When I
remember how simple must have been the tools with which they wrought, I
swell with pride over the skill of my Stone Age ancestors.
As the use of bronze in Denmark supplanted the use of stone, as a
material for the manufacture of implements and weapons, so the exhibit
from the Bronze Age, in the National Museum, comes next after that
from the New Stone Age. In one of the rooms in which the early Bronze
Age finds are displayed are the life-sized dummy figures of a man and
woman, dressed in the costumes of the time—in garments of sheep’s
wool, mixed with deer’s hair. I was tremendously impressed to find
that my great-grandparents of three thousand years ago actually wore
woven garments—of simple pattern, it is true, but woven garments,
nevertheless. Before visiting the Early Bronze room, I must have had a
vague impression that at this period my forbears clad themselves in the
skins of wild beasts—like Adam and Eve and Robinson Crusoe.
Lest you skeptically conclude, Cynthia, that the accouterments of
the lady and gentlemen in the Early Bronze room were merely highly
glorified reproductions of imaginary primitive costumes, I beg to
assure you that the garments are faithful copies, both as regards style
and material, of clothing found in graves belonging to this ancient
time. Isn’t it astonishing that such things should have been preserved
through the stretch of centuries? But it was due to no miracle. The
coffins were made of roughly hewn and hollowed-out trunks of oak trees,
and the tannic acid in the bark preserved not only the coffins but the
clothing and other articles buried with the dead.
Thanks also to the fact that the ancient Scandinavians were careful to
supply their dead with the necessaries and luxuries of the time, in
order that the departed ones might live in comfort beyond the Great
Divide, I was able to learn something about their knowledge of the
decencies of life. For instance, I found that “in the flesh” they used
horn combs, and that they expected to use them beyond the Divide. It is
such a comfort not to have to picture them with matted, tangled locks!
But by the Later Bronze Age the Scandinavians had become sufficiently
advanced to burn their dead; consequently, the graves of this period
throw less light upon their costumes and habits. The bronze articles,
however, which the fire could not harm, show the same perfection of
workmanship and the artistic beauty which one would expect to find in
the descendants of the people of the Scandinavian New Stone Age. And
like this age also, the Bronze Age was prolonged in Scandinavia; iron
did not come into general use until four or five centuries before
Christ; hence, the Scandinavians again had time for the practice which
makes perfect.
In the exciting days of the later time when the piratical raids of the
Vikings caused the nations to the south to pray “Protect us, O Lord,
from the fury of the Northmen!” simple burial was again introduced,
but cremation was not completely abandoned. The return to the more
primitive method of disposing of the dead was, I suppose, due to
imitation of Christian practice; for Christian observances had a strong
modifying influence in Scandinavia long before Christianity itself
was adopted there. It was undoubtedly imitation of their Christian
neighbors which led the Scandinavians of the late Viking period to
engrave runic inscriptions upon the previously bare stones erected over
the graves of the dead. But in the epitaphs the spirit of the departed
was commended to the protection of the warlike Thor, who was at that
time the favorite god of the North, and not to the gentle Christ. Such
heathen grave stones are found in abundance in the museum. Another
Christian practice which got the attention of the Scandinavians was
the wearing of the cross and the crucifix as emblems or charms; in the
pagan North this custom seems to have produced an enthusiasm for Thor’s
hammers, which were worked into ornamental patterns in jewelry and were
also worn about the neck in the form of little silver pendants.
Upon my first visit to the National Museum, I decided that I should
like to take photographs of a few of the objects there. An American
gentleman residing in Copenhagen whom I consulted about the matter
intimated that it was very doubtful whether I would be permitted to
use a camera in the building; and he advised me to repeat my request
through the American minister to Copenhagen, if the powers at the
museum remained obdurate after I had personally approached them upon
the subject. In consequence of this hint of coming difficulty, I armed
myself with all of the documents in my possession calculated to prove
me a responsible and respectable person, and set forth. At the museum
I asked to see the director, and was promptly piloted by a guard
through what seemed an endless series of corridors and passageways to
the office of the Formidable One. I expected to see a Dane of grim
appearance, curt manners, and an iron jaw. But the Herr Direcktor was
far from that; he was a mild, absent-minded, somewhat frowsy-looking
gentleman who would scarcely frighten a mouse. In spite of my surprise
and relief, I preserved sufficient presence of mind to blurt out my
request, at the same time placing my letters of introduction, passport
and diplomas in a jumbled heap upon the table before him.
The Power behind the National Museum gazed blankly and absent-mindedly
at the pile of documents for a few seconds, and then asked, “What are
those papers?”
“They are my credentials,” said I.
“Credentials? I do not care to see your credentials,” said he. “Take
all the pictures you want.”
And I did. Wasn’t the Herr Direcktor a nice man?
I have since learned that the Scandinavian people are surprisingly
generous and helpful toward all serious students who come to their
land for the purpose of working in their libraries and museums. They
are honest themselves and expect honest treatment from others, and
generally receive it, too, I think, else they would hardly continue
their liberal policy.
But I fear that I may have bored you with my ramblings in archæological
fields, haunted by the ghosts of ancient heathen Scandinavians. By way
of variety, you might like to hear about my visit to “Runde Taarn”
(the Round Tower), which is above ground, and modern and of Christian
construction. No pun was intended, but it happens that the tower was
really built by Christian IV of Denmark, who lived in the early part of
the seventeenth century. It was originally erected for an astronomical
observatory and—together with an important library—was connected
with a church, built at the same time, which was given the doubly
significant name, Church of the Trinity.
For a short time Tycho Brahe, who, because of his birth in southern
Sweden in the days when it was controlled by Denmark, is claimed by
both Swedes and Danes, worked in the observatory. Tycho had received
much kindness at the hands of Frederick II, Christian’s predecessor,
but it soon was evident that the new ruler, great though he was in
many ways, did not appreciate the genius of the astronomer, and not
only cut off the pension which had been granted to Tycho by the late
king, but also forbade him to continue his investigations. Before this,
Tycho Brahe had gained the hatred and contempt of the nobility, to
which rank he belonged, by daring to do anything so useful as to study
astronomy; he had been ostracised by his family as a result of his
marriage with a peasant girl; and had roused the jealous indignation of
physicians by free medical attendance upon the poor. Now, when his king
turned against him, the astronomer shook the dust of unappreciative
Denmark from his feet for good and all, and went to Germany, where
he taught the German astronomer Kepler, who became greater than he.
Kepler’s teacher, however, will be long remembered not only because of
the fundamental discoveries which he made, but also because his name
is fixed in the sky. Perhaps you will recall that in the old normal
school days when I gave “astronomy parties,” one particularly large
lunar crater stared down at us through the telescope like the eye of
a Cyclops. That one is named Tycho, for the Scandinavian astronomer,
Tycho Brahe.
Though Tycho Brahe went, the Round Tower stayed on; and it was used for
astronomical purposes until about fifty years ago. It might have been
so used still, except for its popularity as a general landscape-gazing
observation tower, in spite of the opposition of the professors, who
finally abandoned it for purposes of investigation.
The top of the tower is reached not by a spiral staircase, but by a
wide spiral roadway of brick, deeply grooved by the carriage wheels of
celebrities who drove to the top in days gone by. Peter the Great, for
one, seems to have found the ascent of Runde Taarn a favorite amusement
when he visited Denmark. It is stated that when he made his last ascent
it was in a coach drawn by six horses, and that Queen Catherine sat at
his side and held the lines. Until recent years also, in accordance
with time-honored custom, newly confirmed children climbed to the top
of the tower for a view of the surrounding land; thus they celebrated
their formal entrance into manhood and womanhood, and thus they were
introduced to the world in which they were thenceforth to play a larger
part.
With the coming of the flying machine, however, and other devices for
producing more exquisite thrills, Runde Taarn was left pretty much
to the ordinary tourist, who pays his ten-öre entrance fee and, like
myself, climbs laboriously along the worn roadway to the top. But once
up there under the fluttering folds of Dannebrog, the beautiful red and
white flag of the Danes, your tourist—meaning myself—gazes out over
the city feeling fully rewarded for her exertions. For the view is a
splendid one and reveals practically all of the famous buildings of the
city, with their peculiar towers and domes, spires and steeples, as
well as the parks and boulevards interspersed between, and the harbor
with its many ships, and the Sound beyond.
Around the edge of the platform at the top of the tower are double
railings. The inner one, I learned, was put up in the 1890’s, during a
suicide epidemic. Before it was erected several melancholy Danes had
taken arms against a sea of troubles and had ended them by a flying
leap over the solitary railing. Now, such a spectacular termination of
one’s earthly career is no longer possible.
Another monument to Christian IV’s interest in building is the Castle
of Rosenborg. Formerly this royal residence was well outside of
Copenhagen, but during the centuries the city has grown to such a
degree that now the beautiful royal park and castle are in its very
heart. Perhaps it was the magic of the day of my visit to it which
lent Rosenborg part of its fascination; for the sky was of the clearest
blue and the sunshine was wonderfully golden. Yet the castle itself,
irrespective of the day, looked just like the castles in all proper
fairy tales. With its red brick walls outlined in Renaissance softness,
it stood in its setting of grass and trees, looking indescribably
“homey” and inviting. About it clustered the great rose gardens
blooming so triumphantly and invitingly that as I approached across the
park I felt a stranger to my recent self. It seemed as if fairy tales
might be true, or as if I myself might be a child in a fairy book.
But to cross the threshold was to be disillusioned; for Danish kings
and queens and gallant knights and ladies fair no longer dwell within.
The castle is a museum; since 1863 it has been the repository of the
“Danish Kings’ Chronological Collection.” And royal “old clothes,”
though sometimes interesting, are incapable of working enchantment. The
collection of relics at Rosenborg, however, is one of the richest in
Europe, and is exceedingly varied. In it one may find royal souvenirs
ranging from the lock of hair of Christian I, who lived four hundred
and fifty years ago, to the couch upon which the late Christian IX was
in the habit of taking his noonday nap.
[Illustration: Rosenborg Castle, Copenhagen]
[Illustration: City Hall (Right) and Palace Hotel (Left), Copenhagen]
Before telling you about the collection more fully, however, I wish
to explain to you the time-honored custom of naming the Danish kings,
lest you become utterly bewildered among the Christians and Fredericks.
The system is really a very simple one; for, since the accession of
the Oldenburg house to the throne four hundred and fifty years ago,
all of the kings—with one single exception—have been Christians
or Fredericks, appearing alternately. The exception was the son of
Christian I who ruled as King Hans. Ideally, he should have been
named Frederick, for his successor was Christian; but, as it was, the
Christians got the start of the Fredericks by one reign; so the late
Christian IX was succeeded by the late Frederick VIII. And I suppose
that henceforth even to the end of Danish kings the alternation of
Fredericks and Christians will continue.
Every Christian and every Frederick is, I presume, represented at
Rosenborg by at least one relic, but I have no intention of boring you
with an exhaustive catalogue of them. However, a few of the objects
which for one reason or another caught my attention may not be without
interest to you. Christian IV, the builder of the castle, who is
generally considered Denmark’s best-beloved king, is naturally well
represented in the museum. It was this Christian, you will remember,
who led the unsuccessful Protestant forces during the Danish period
of the Thirty Years’ War. While the struggle was on, Christian had
a vision—or thought he had—with reference to the war. In one of
the show-cases at Rosenborg is a miniature painting of the vision,
accompanied by a description by the king. A further proof that
Christian IV had a part in the superstition of his time is a piece of
jade which he wore as a charm against gout.
After taking his turn in the Thirty Years’ War, Christian valiantly
fought the Swedes in the great battle of the Baltic; but in the
engagement one of his eyes was put out by a splinter. The cap which
he wore, with a green patch attached to protect the wounded organ, is
another souvenir of Christian IV’s reign to be found at Rosenborg. You
remember well, I am sure, Longfellow’s translation of Evald’s song,
“King Christian,” which is one of the favorite national songs of the
Danes. It begins:
“King Christian stood by the lofty mast
In mist and smoke;
His sword was hammering so fast,
Through Gothic helm and brain it passed;
Then sank each hostile hulk and mast,
In mist and smoke.”
That King Christian was Christian IV, and the battle was the battle of
the Baltic.
In the exhibit belonging to the period of Frederick III, the successor
to this famous Christian, are pieces of alchemical gold. I was
surprised at this, for I had not supposed that the attempts to change
the baser metals into gold lingered so late as the seventeenth century.
But perhaps the Danish “artificial gold” was not the result of any
serious attempt to find a short-cut to wealth.
It was during the reign of the next Frederick that Czar Peter of Russia
visited Denmark. Frederick IV and Peter were pretty good friends,
partly because of their common enmity for Charles XII of Sweden, “the
madman of the North.” In the Corridor of Frederick IV is the bust of
Peter, and also a goblet and a compass of ivory, both of which were
made by Peter, who knew how to use his hands as well as his head. In
the apartments of Frederick are also a bottle containing a little of
the oil with which the Danish king was anointed at coronation, and a
table and a chair of chased silver used by him and his successors at
the formal opening of the Danish parliament.
Frederick VI lived in the troubled period of the Napoleonic wars;
and as a result of his desire to remain neutral, he saw his capital
bombarded by the British fleet. This provoked the Danes to ally
themselves with France, against England, and they paid for doing so,
in 1814, by the loss of Norway to Sweden. A curious souvenir of this
Napoleonic war time is a ship of the line made by Danish sailors from
bones found in the soup served to them while they were prisoners of war
of the English.
I particularly wish, Cynthia, that you could have seen the grand
old banqueting hall on the top floor of Rosenborg. It restored to
me the atmosphere of fairy lore and romance which the museum of
relics of defunct royalty had dispelled. The great room is finely
proportioned, and is well lighted by large windows which give a fine
view of the park. On the pane of one of these windows was the name
“Alexandra”—scratched with a diamond—to which a guard near at hand
proudly called my attention. The dowager Queen Alexandra of England
is the daughter of the late Christian IX, you remember. The present
appearance of the room dates from the time of Christian V, two hundred
years ago. The ceiling is of dark oak set with panels painted by famous
artists. On the walls are twelve Gobelin tapestries, woven at the
order of Christian V in honor of some rather doubtful victories won by
him in southern Sweden. Tall silver candle-sticks have been placed at
intervals around the sides of the room; and, here and there, against
the walls are great arm chairs, and stiff, grand-looking, high-backed
ones, upholstered in rich embroidery. Before the fireplace are two
silver firedogs and a silver firescreen bearing Christian V’s monogram.
The royal thrones stand at one end of the room; that of the king was
constructed from the ivory of whales’ teeth in the 1660’s, while the
queen’s, which is of silver, was made in 1725. But to me, far more
impressive than these antique seats of the mighty were three couchant
silver lions, large as Newfoundland dogs, which stand in front of
thrones.
The lions represent the three divisions of Scandinavia, which, through
the Union of Calmar, were, in 1397, united by the great Queen Margaret
under Danish rule. In 1523 Sweden revolted against the tyranny of
Christian II, “the Nero of the North,” and established her independence
under Gustav Vasa; and Norway was finally lost to Denmark a century
ago. Nevertheless, these three particular lions are still used at
royal funerals, at special solemn audiences granted by the king, and
at the opening of the Danish parliament when the king is present. And
three lion emblems still appear upon the Danish coat-of-arms. Sweden,
however, has long since ceased objecting to the implied insult,
for she well knows that Denmark has no unholy designs upon Swedish
territory. Indeed, it is a case of tit for tat; for during the long
period of enmity and warfare between Denmark and Sweden, following the
separation, Sweden retaliated by placing three Scandinavian crowns upon
her shield; and there they are to-day, even though the two countries
are now the best of friends. Norway, on the other hand, is more
modest; probably made so by her four centuries of domination by Denmark
and her later unequal union with Sweden. Upon Norway’s coat-of-arms are
seen one solitary rampant lion and one solitary Scandinavian crown.
Rejoicing in her tardy freedom, Norway is satisfied merely to be free;
“Alt for Norge” (All for Norway), the motto which appears upon her
coins beneath the head of King Haakon, reflects only this intense
patriotic joy; the “Alt” carries no thought of unfriendly designs upon
the property of Norway’s neighbors.