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 title="the tenth" 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.
Rosenborg Castle, Copenhagen
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.