On arriving at Stockholm, several stalwart women offer us their services as porters. They are Dalecarlians, who earn a livelihood by carrying luggage or water, by rowing boats, and by resorting to other occupations generally reserved for the stronger sex. Honest, industrious, capable of immense fatigue, they never lack employment. They wear short black petticoats, red bodices, white chemises with long sleeves, short and narrow aprons of two colours, red stockings, and shoes with thick wooden soles. Around their heads they generally bind a
handkerchief, or else wear a very small black cap, which just covers the back of their hair.
Stockholm proves, on examination, to be a handsome city, situated at the junction of the Baltic with the Lake Mälar; or, more strictly speaking, on the banks of a short canal which unites the two. One of its most conspicuous buildings is the stately Ritterholm Church, which Madame Pfeiffer describes as resembling rather a vault and an armoury than a religious edifice. In the side chapels are enshrined the monuments of dead Swedish kings, whose bones lie in the royal sepulchres below. On both sides of the nave are ranged the equestrian statues of armed knights; while from every vantage-point hang flags and standards. The keys of captured towns and fortresses are suspended in the side chapels, and drums and kettle-drums piled upon the floor—trophies won from the enemies of Sweden in the days when she was a great European power. The chapels also contain, enclosed in glass-cases, parts of the dress and armour of some of the Swedish monarchs. We notice, with keen interest, the uniform worn by Charles XII.—he
“Who left a name at which the world grew pale,
To point a moral or adorn a tale”—
at the time of his death, and the hat penetrated by the fatal shot that slew the fiery warrior. A remarkable contrast is afforded by the rich dress and plumed hat of Bernadotte, the French soldier of fortune, who founded the present royal house.
The royal palace is a stately structure, and its interior is enriched with the costliest decoration. The Ritter-house, the Museum of Ancient Art, the Crown-Prince’s palace, the theatre, the bank, the mint, are all deserving of inspection. In the vicinity a trip may be made to the beautiful and diversified scenery of the Royal Park, or the military school at Karlberg, or to the ancient royal castle of Gripsholm on the Lake of Mälar.
But our last excursion must be directed, by way of Upsala, to the iron-mines of Danemora.
The little village of Danemora is embosomed in woods. It contains a small church and a few scattered houses of various dimensions. The neighbourhood abounds in the usual indications of a mining locality. Madame Pfeiffer arrived in what is called “the nick of time,” and just opportunely, to witness the blasting of the ore. From the wide opening of the largest mine it is possible to see what passes below; and a strange and wonderful sight it
is to peer down into the abyss, four hundred and eighty feet deep, and observe the colossal entrances to the various pits, the rocky bridges, the projections, arches, and caverns excavated in the solid rock. The miners appear so many puppets; their movements can hardly be distinguished, until the eye has grown accustomed to the darkness and to their diminutive size.
At the given moment a match was applied to four trains of gunpowder. The man who lighted them immediately sprang back, and hid himself behind a wall of rock. In a minute or two came the flash; a few stones were hurled into the air; and immediately afterwards was heard a loud detonation, and the shattered mass fell in fragments all around. Echo caught up the tremendous explosion, and carried it to the furthest recesses of the mine; while, to enhance the terror of the scene, one rock was hardly shivered before another crash was heard, and then a third, and immediately afterwards a fourth.