MIDNIGHT SUNBEAMS.

MIDNIGHT SUNBEAMS
OR
BITS OF TRAVEL THROUGH THE LAND
OF THE NORSEMAN

BY
EDWIN COOLIDGE KIMBALL
BOSTON
CUPPLES AND HURD, Publishers

To
WALTER H. CAMP,
In memory of years of friendship, this book is affectionately dedicated.

PREFACE.

The following sketches of a journey in Norway, Sweden, and Denmark are given to the public in the hope that their perusal will furnish information concerning the people, and attractions, of countries which are being visited by Americans more and more each succeeding year. While they may impart some useful knowledge to intending travellers over the same ground, it is hoped as well that they will furnish entertainment to those who travel only through books.

The memories of the days passed in the North are so sunny and delightful, that I wish others to enjoy them with me; and if the reader receives a clear impression of the novel experiences and thorough pleasure attending a journey through Norseland, and partakes, if only in a limited degree, of my enthusiasm over the character of the people and the imposing grandeurs of nature, the object of this book will be accomplished.

E. C. K.

CONTENTS.

COPENHAGEN AND ENVIRONS.

CHAPTER I.
COPENHAGEN AND ENVIRONS.

Lübeck—Journey to Copenhagen—Herr Rentier—Bertel Thorvaldsen—Museums—An Evening at the Tivoli—Souvenirs of Hamlet—A Famous Mother-in-law—The Frederiksborg Palace—An Aimless Widow.

It was on a charming day in June, after an hour’s railway ride from Hamburg, that we arrived at Lübeck—the starting point of our journey through Scandinavia. Lübeck is the smallest of the three independent Hanseatic towns of the German Empire, both Hamburg and Bremen far surpassing her in size and importance, yet at one time she stood at the head of the Hanseatic League—the alliance of the great commercial towns of North Germany.

Architecturally, Lübeck is one of the most interesting places in Germany. You enter the town from the railway station through the Holstenthor, a wonderful mediæval gateway of red brick and terracotta, and soon reach the market-place, on two sides of which rises the venerable Rathhaus, a Gothic building in brick, with many gables, turrets and quaint spires; extending underneath it is the Rathskeller, remarkable for its well-preserved vaulting, as well as for its excellent Rhine wines and claret. The chimney piece in the apartment, where wedding festivities were formerly celebrated, bears the following inscription—a genuine bachelor sentiment—Mennich man lude synghet wen me em de Brut bringet; weste he wat men em brochte, dat he wol wenen mochte (Many a man sings loudly when they bring him his bride; if he knew what they brought him, he might well weep).

On one side of the square is the handsome modern post-office constructed in the mediæval style; here and there in the quiet streets we came upon the elaborately carved fronts of the ancient guild halls, and buildings with high steep roofs filled with odd windows like great blinking eyes; in one of the squares is a handsome modern fountain, and before a hotel near by stand two colossal cast-iron lions designed by the famous German sculptor Rauch, while scattered about the city are numerous churches containing interesting monuments, mural paintings and ancient altar-pieces.

The river Trave winding about the city renders it almost an island; the old ramparts have been converted into promenades and pleasure gardens, and from them one has an extended view of the busy harbor and its shipping, while the many towers, and lofty numerously windowed roofs of the houses and public buildings rising above it, present a striking and picturesque effect. We could not think of leaving the old city without first investing in some of the marzipan, for which Lübeck is celebrated; it is a sort of confect or cake made of sugar and almonds, very sweet and insipid to the taste, and doubtless one must acquire a liking for it the same as for the varied assortment of German sausages.

At four o’clock in the afternoon we stood on the deck of the “Orion,” watching the many tall and slender spires of the churches of Lübeck receding from view, as we steamed onward down the narrow winding river, nine miles to Travemünde, a little sea-bathing resort for the Lübeckers at the river’s mouth, where we entered upon the Baltic. We sat on deck watching the sunset and the outlines of the German coast, the country where we had spent nearly a year and which had grown to seem like home, growing more and more indistinct; the sea was as calm as a mill pond, there being scarcely any perceptible motion; the moon appeared and we remained for a long time upon deck, in perfect enjoyment of the scene, then retired to our state-rooms to sleep soundly until our arrival at Copenhagen, soon after six o’clock in the morning.

Copenhagen impressed us at first like a Dutch city. The long quays covered with merchandise and lined with shipping, and, as we drove to our hotel, the vistas down side streets of canals filled with vessels, reminded us strongly of Amsterdam and the other Dutch dams we had visited.

In many European hotels the servant who conducts you to your room upon your arrival hands you a printed form to be filled out, giving information as to your place of birth, your age, where you came from, where you are going to, and your quality or profession. We had generally written tourist, traveller, or student in answer to the last, but as students are often classed with socialists and other suspicious characters, we registered this time that coveted European title—Rentier (a gentleman living on his income). Later, as we came out of the hotel, on a great black-board at the foot of the staircase we saw, in large letters, so that “he who ran could read,” Herr Rentier E., Herr Rentier K., against the number of our room, and the line of servants greeting us with obsequious bows gave us an exalted opinion of our own importance, but filled us with alarm when we thought of the fees that would be expected from gentlemen with titles associated with big money bags.

The great centre of the life and activity of the city is the Kongens Nytorv (King’s Market), a large square from which radiate thirteen streets. Trees surround a king’s statue in the centre, on the south side rises the National Theatre, the principal hotels and shops are in, or near, this square, and the greater part of the horse-car lines centre here. Walking down an adjacent street whose shop windows were filled with tempting displays of terracotta vases, statues, and reliefs, many of them being copies from Thorvaldsen’s works, we came to a large market place, where old women, wearing big white sunbonnets, with white handkerchiefs folded over their shoulders, sat in the open air behind piles of fruit and vegetables. Many of the market girls wore kid gloves, minus the finger ends; one girl, adorned with what were once delicate evening gloves, was selling cabbages, and from the coquettish manner in which she handled them with her soiled gloves, we judged that she considered herself the belle of the market.

Near by is the Christiansborg Palace, which was partially destroyed by fire in 1884. Most of the walls are still standing, but the interior was completely destroyed. In addition to the royal residence, the long range of buildings surrounding the spacious courts contained the Chambers of Parliament, the Royal Library and Picture Gallery; part of the collection in the last was saved from the flames.

Looking across the great Palace Square we see the tall tower of the Exchange one hundred and fifty feet high, the upper part of which is formed by four dragons, their tails twisted together high in air, until they gradually taper to a point. Tradition says that this curious spire was removed bodily from Kalmar in the south of Sweden.

At one side of the great ruined palace is the Thorvaldsen Museum, the chief attraction of Copenhagen, and the northern Mecca of all art-loving tourists.

Bertel Thorvaldsen was born in Copenhagen in 1770. His father was a ship carpenter and carver of figure heads, and as a child little Bertel went with him to the ship yards and assisted him in his work, showing so much intelligence, that at the age of eleven he entered the Free School of Art.

Here he made rapid progress in sculpture, but the other branches of his education were so neglected, that at the age of eighteen he could scarcely read and write; his genius for art was born in him, and at the age of twenty-three he gained the grand prize, which carried with it the privilege of study and travel abroad. In after years, when questioned concerning the date of his birth, he always replied: “I don’t know; but I arrived in Rome on the 8th of March 1797,” dating his birth from the commencement of his career as an artist. Years of obscurity and patient labor followed his arrival in Rome; the model of his great work “Jason,” though greatly admired, found no purchaser till in 1803, just as he was about to return to Copenhagen in hopeless disgust, Thomas Hope, a wealthy English banker, ordered its reproduction in marble. From this time forward, fame and prosperity flowed in upon him at full tide. When he returned to Denmark in 1819, his whole journey, in each country through which he travelled, was a series of honors. His reception at Copenhagen was triumphal, and he was lodged as a guest in the Royal Palace. He remained a year, then returned to Rome where he labored assiduously till 1838, when he left, intending to pass the remainder of his days in his native land, but the climate proving too severe he returned, in 1841, to Rome. Having revisited Copenhagen in 1844 he died there suddenly in the theatre. By many he is ranked as the greatest sculptor since Michael Angelo, and is regarded as the most famous Dane of modern times.

The Thorvaldsen Museum was built by the city of Copenhagen, partly from private subscriptions, as a repository for the works of art bequeathed by the great sculptor to his native town; it also contains his Mausoleum, for it was Thorvaldsen’s expressed wish to rest among his works. The building is constructed in the style of the Pompeian and Etruscan tombs enclosing a large open court. Over the pediment of the façade is a bronze goddess of victory in a quadriga; the other three sides of the building are decorated with a series of scenes in plaster, inlaid with different colored cements, representing the arrival and unloading of the ships at Copenhagen in 1838, which had been sent to Rome to bring back the great sculptor, and his works of art, to his native land. The tomb is in the centre of the open court, covered with ivy and surrounded by a low granite frame bearing simply the name, Bertel Thorvaldsen, and the date of his birth and death. The coffin rests in a decorated vault below.

In the corridors surrounding the court, in the lofty vestibule, and in the forty-two rooms on both floors of the building, are displayed one hundred and nine of Thorvaldsen’s works in marble, besides plaster casts of all the works from his hand, several hundred in number, comprising statues, busts, reliefs, and sepulchral and commemorative monuments: for in every city of any importance, from Copenhagen to Rome, there is found some work from the hand of this prolific genius. Several rooms contain a collection of gems, coins, vases, antiquities and paintings, gathered by the sculptor during his residence in Rome, while others contain his sketches, designs, and furniture from his home in Copenhagen.

Among his most famous works are Jason with the Golden Fleece, Hebe, Mercury, and the Shepherd Boy, the model of which was a beautiful Roman boy. There is a most striking statue of Thorvaldsen, executed by himself, representing the sculptor in his studio, with mallet and chisel in his hands, as he pauses for a moment in his work, and leans upon his unfinished statue of Hope.

The lovely reliefs of Day, Night, and the Four Seasons are familiar to all from photographs; the relief called the Ages of Love, where representatives of all ages are eagerly catching the flying cherubs as they are let out of a cage, so delighted the Pope on his visit to the artist’s studio, and so absorbed was he in contemplation, that he forgot to bestow the customary blessing upon the sculptor.

Perhaps the most impressive of all his works are his Christ and the Twelve Apostles, the models of which are here in the Museum in the “Hall of Christ,” and the originals in marble in the Fruekirke (Church of Our Lady) not far away; the colossal statues of the apostles, at the sides of the church, lead up to the sublime figure of the Risen Christ; and all show the capacity of the artist for appreciating and fulfilling the demands of the Christian ideal. In the same church is a kneeling Angel of great beauty, holding a shell which serves as a font, and in two chapels are exquisite reliefs of the Baptism, and Last Supper.

Copenhagen possesses many museums and collections; among them, the Museum of Northern Antiquities contains an invaluable collection representing the Flint, Bronze, Iron, Mediæval and Modern Periods of Scandinavian civilization, but it is of more interest to the scientist and special student than to the ordinary tourist.

The Ethnological Museum is one of the most extensive in Europe; particularly interesting were the figures in costumes representing life among the Esquimaux and North American Indians, the latter gorgeous in feathers and war paint.

The Church of the Trinity has a tower 116 feet high, called the Round Tower, ascended by means of a wide winding roadway, which would readily permit of a horse and carriage being driven to the very top; from the summit you obtain one of the finest views of the city, divided into islands by the canals and arms of the sea which intersect it in many directions. You look down upon a sea of roofs, broken here and there by gardens and small parks, and bounded upon one side by a sea of blue water, upon the other by the green beech forests of Zealand.

The pleasantest promenade in the city is called the Lange Linie, a wide shaded walk extending along the sea on one side of the citadel, at the end of which are several sea-bathing establishments; it is a favorite resort on an afternoon, and one encounters many promenaders, enjoying the bracing sea breezes and the views of the gleaming waters traversed by numerous steamers and sailing craft. The citadel is surrounded by a moat, but the drawbridge is always down and one enters freely, walks about the earth-works and walls, among the cannon and barracks, and explores unmolested to his heart’s content, in great contrast to the fortresses of Germany, where no stranger is allowed to enter without a permit, and at every step is accompanied by a soldier.

The Botanic Gardens are laid out on the site of the ancient fortifications, and furnish an agreeable lounging place, even if one is not interested in flowers and plants. In this section of the city are many wide streets and boulevards, with handsome modern houses built on the Parisian model of flats. The handsome brick Rosenborg Palace near by is especially interesting from its collection of personal mementoes of the Danish monarchs, who fitted up suites of rooms in the style of their various epochs, and collected here their jewels, weapons, coronation robes, state costumes, and curiosities. In the rear of the palace is a pretty park, open to the public, which is a favorite resort of nurses and the rising generation of Danes.

The part of the city adjacent to the railway station appears to be of very recent growth; its wide streets, lighted by electric light and traversed by horse-cars, are bounded by large hotels and imposing business blocks and houses.

In this quarter is the Tivoli, the most popular resort in Copenhagen, and a most attractive place on a summer evening. It is an immense garden, containing many handsome concert halls, gorgeous pavilions, restaurants, booths for the sale of fancy articles, and every conceivable means of amusement. You pay 50 öre (about thirteen cents) to enter, and are then free to select such entertainment as your fancy dictates. From six to eleven o’clock in the evening there is a change of entertainment every half hour. The first evening we spent at the Tivoli the programme began with a concert from a brass band; then for half an hour in a beautiful concert hall in a different part of the gardens, a string orchestra of sixty performers played selections from one of Beethoven’s symphonies; after which there was a rush to watch, during the next half hour, a trapeze performance in the open air, followed by jumping, tumbling, and walking a wire; the brass band gave another concert; an operetta in one act followed, the audience sitting in chairs beneath the trees before the stage; then came the second part of the orchestral concert, with selections from Wagner’s Tannhäuser. In another part of the garden, a play at a small theatre occupies the next hour, and you begin to feel that you have received many times the worth of the price of admission; and yet the programme is not exhausted.

As the lingering June twilight deepens, the gardens are illuminated by festoons and arches of lights in colored globes, the façades of the cafés, restaurants, and other buildings blaze with light, and the entire grounds become a picture of enchantment and festivity.

The lively Danes sit at little tables beneath the trees, eat cold sausage, drink beer, and take in the music, the same as their near neighbors in Germany.

You can explore grottos and caves, sit in romantic arbors, or promenade through leafy allées lined with statues, copies from the antique and Thorvaldsen’s masterpieces. If you long to spend a few surplus öre, there are open cars rushing like a whirlwind down one hill and up another much like a roller toboggan; merry-go-rounds with boats furnish you the motion of the Baltic and the sensation of sea sickness on a limited scale, or you can take a cruise on a diminutive steamer up and down a contracted lake; you can gaze upon the fat woman, the living skeleton, or the double-headed girl, peep through a camera obscura, shoot at glass balls, and blow to test your lungs. There is everything for all classes, for this is the great and original Tivoli, which has many imitators, in Germany and other European countries, but still remains without an equal. At stated periods there are fête nights, when fireworks and extra illuminations are furnished, but at any and all times the Tivoli is a pleasant place in which to spend an evening, and one that no traveller should miss seeing.

The Danes spell the name of their city, Kjöbenhavn, but it is difficult to recognize in this combination of letters our New England name of the kissing game with the rope, called Copenhagen, which you, gentle reader, have doubtless played at some period of your life. Perhaps it is a Yankee game after all and not Danish, for nowhere in Copenhagen did we see it played, not even at the Tivoli, where every conceivable form of amusement is furnished.

The environs of Copenhagen offer a variety of pleasing and interesting excursions. The horse-cars will take you in half an hour to Frederiksburg, a very enjoyable ride, as the cars are constructed after the general European model, with a narrow staircase ascending to the roof, upon which are comfortable seats, whence you have an unobstructed view. The Frederiksburg Palace, standing upon an eminence, has been converted into a military school, from the long shaded terrace in front of which you have a beautiful view of Copenhagen, with its towers and spires. The adjoining gardens were occupied by family parties taking their lunch in picnic style, and the neighboring natural park of Söndermarken offered many shady and agreeable walks.

One morning we left by steamer for Helsingör, the trip occupying three hours. We kept close to the Danish coast, calling frequently at the little settlements, for during the first half of the journey there is a continual succession of small sea-bathing resorts, with inviting villas and cottages which were just being opened for the season.

Helsingör, the Elsinore of Hamlet, is a small and uninteresting town, where we found no one who could understand English or German, but had to make our way with the few Danish words in our possession. It is but a short distance to the Kronberg, an ancient fortress built, in 1577, on a low promontory extending out into the sea, at the point where the Sound contracts to its narrowest limits, so that it is but a short distance across to the opposite Swedish town of Helsingborg.

The Kronberg is surrounded by a broad moat and ramparts, and its numerous lofty gray stone towers rise from a steep and many windowed roof; from the flat roof of a great square tower is an extensive view, embracing both the Danish and Swedish coasts, and the narrow Sound, separating the two countries, animated with numerous shipping. The interior of the castle contains a chapel with carved pulpit and choir stalls, and we were shown the apartments occupied by the royal family on the occasion of their rare visits, which are rather shabbily furnished, and filled with very mediocre paintings, painted we judged by contract at so much per yard.

The flag battery looking seaward, where the Danish colors float from a lofty flagstaff and cannon command the entrance to the Sound, is said to be the platform before the old castle of Elsinore, where the first scene of Hamlet is laid, and where his father’s ghost appeared to Hamlet, “the melancholy Dane.”

A short distance north of the Kronberg is Marielyst, a fashionable sea-bathing place, to which we walked along the sandy beach, strewed with shells and seaweed. As it was still early in the season, the Kurhaus was not yet open, and the place had rather a deserted look; nevertheless it impressed us as a very pleasant resort, from its combination of sea and forest; and the many pretty villas in the neighborhood attested its popularity. At a hotel we found English-speaking waiters, and after being served with a good dinner, we visited a pile of stones surrounding a small column said to mark the site of Hamlet’s grave. Our faith in its authenticity was not strong enough to move our feelings or to make us realize that we stood upon hallowed ground; instead of lingering to weep over a pile of stones, that knew not Hamlet, we hurried to Helsingör to take the railway train to another palace. My travelling companion was a German. On the steamer on our way to Helsingör, three German Jews, travelling for pleasure, had approached us seeking to form our acquaintance; they were not disagreeable to me, but my friend, who had a German’s inveterate hatred for a Jew, would not speak to them, and besought me to repel their advances. We had encountered them everywhere,—at the Kronberg, at Marielyst, and they greeted us upon our arrival at the station; so it was evident they were making the same round of sight seeing we were, and my friend insisted, in order to escape them, that we should take a first class ticket, knowing well that they would not follow our example. In Denmark, as in Germany, only blue bloods travel first class, and we received all the attention we should have merited had we been princes of the royal blood.

During our short railway journey we passed by Fredensborg, the summer residence of the Danish royal family, where every summer the most famous mother-in-law the world has ever known holds a family gathering, which comprises nearly half the present and prospective Crowned Heads, Majesties, and Royal Highnesses of Europe. Certainly the King and Queen of little Denmark have made most brilliant matches for their children, and settled them well in life. Their eldest daughter is the Czarina of Russia, their second daughter is the Princess of Wales and the future Queen of Great Britain and Empress of India; the eldest son will be the next King of Denmark, and his brother is the present King of Greece. The Czar seems to especially cherish his mother-in-law, and it is said that only in Denmark can he feel secure of his life, and take a little comfort. It is doubtless to her mother’s careful and practical training that the Princess of Wales owes her lovely character, and that she in turn has made such a good and devoted mother, and is to-day the most popular lady in England. It is pleasant to think of this royal family—parents, children, and grand-children—laying aside the cares of royalty and state, and meeting every summer at the old home, like any family in the lower walks of life, in common love and affection, and enjoying themselves in simple ways.

We leave the train at Hilleröd, and to escape the Jews take a cab to the palace of Frederiksborg, built upon three islands, in a lake surrounded by beech woods. The islands are connected by bridges, and the situation of the palace, its lofty façades with their finely sculptured windows, its high roofs, and picturesque spires and towers, rising from the transparent water, is very striking. You pass beneath a gigantic gate tower and enter the great courtyard, where in years gone by Christian IV. cut off the head of the Master of the Mint, who had defrauded him. “He tried to cheat us, but we have cheated him, for we have chopped off his head,” said the king. The palace has been thoroughly restored, and since the burning of the Christiansborg Palace in Copenhagen has been converted into a National Museum. There are sixty-four rooms, with ceilings of carved wood painted in bright colors, with elaborately carved doors and chimney pieces, beautiful inlaid floors, and wainscotted and frescoed walls, in which are displayed richly carved furniture, bric-a-brac, suits of armor, historical souvenirs, and statuary and paintings mostly by modern Danish artists. The gem of the palace is the magnificent Ritter Saal, an immense hall with a beautiful inlaid marble floor, the lofty ceiling a mass of intricate wood carving, richly gilded and painted in bright colors, composed of pendants, fruits, flowers, figures of cherubs and angels, and divided into sections with carved figures in high relief representing various trades and industries, the whole furnishing a bewildering study of striking richness and detail.

The sides of the long hall and the deep window recesses are hung with beautiful tapestries, and at the end of the hall is an elaborate chimney-piece of ebony and silver, rising to the ceiling and adorned with statues and sculptured groups.

The palace chapel, where the Danish kings were formerly crowned, has likewise been restored and redecorated. The roof is rich with delicate tracery and carving, the light falls through stained windows upon sculptured capital and decorated arch, the curious prayer chamber where many kings have worshipped rises above the high altar, and around the upper galleries are hung the coats of arms of all the Danish nobles. Opening from the gallery in the rear of the organ is a small room with most beautifully carved doors and exquisitely inlaid wooden walls, framing panels upon which are painted scenes representing the life of Christ, by Prof. Bloch. The fittings and decorations of the room are the gift of Morten Nielsen, the wealthy brewer of Carlsberg beer, the favorite beer of the people of Denmark, and the guide told us the room cost a million crowns (over a quarter of a million of dollars).

An hour’s journey by rail through a pleasant country, amid fertile fields and green beech woods, brought us back to Copenhagen, and at sunset we steamed out of the harbor with its forts, warships, and trading vessels, the spires of the city fading from sight as we sailed up the Sound, passing the great Kronberg fortress with its memories of Hamlet, out into the Cattegat.

Among the passengers were an American widow and her young daughter, who had been turned loose in Europe with a package of Cook’s tickets, and for a year had been wandering around aimlessly. They were going to Norway simply to escape hot weather, and as they could speak nothing but English, and had neither guide book nor fixed plans for their journey, they depended on those they might meet to tell them what there was to be seen, and help them out of their difficulties. We concluded it had been many a day since the aimless widow had had a listener to her complaints, for her tongue was in incessant motion as she unbosomed her troubles. But even its whirr could not drive back the vague uncertain feeling that was creeping over us the farther we advanced upon the rolling Cattegat, and we soon sought the seclusion of our state-room, and passed a restless night until early morning, when we arrived at Gothenburg, Sweden.

ACROSS SWEDEN BY THE
GOTHA CANAL.

CHAPTER II.
ACROSS SWEDEN BY THE GOTHA
CANAL.

A Day at Gothenburg—The Gotha Canal—Life On the “Venus”—keeping our Meal Accounts—The Trollhätta Falls—Pastoral Scenery—Swedish Boarding-School Girls—Lake Mälar.

Gothenburg, a busy commercial place of about 77,000 inhabitants, is, next to Stockholm, the largest city in Sweden. It is situated on the Gotha river, five miles from its mouth, with an excellent harbor. As it has direct steamer communication with England and Scotland, and close business relations with them, and as many English merchants and manufacturers reside here, it seems almost like an English city. On the steamboat quays, at hotels, railway stations, and in the streets, English is spoken, so that our first impressions of Sweden had a decided English tinge.

The city is well built, with solid stone quays along the numerous canals running through it, is regularly laid out with wide streets, and is furnished with horse-cars, parks, theatres, and all the adjuncts of modern civilization.

At dinner at the hotel we first saw a peculiar Swedish institution called the smörgasbord, which is considered a stimulator of the appetite. All the natives, before sitting down to the regular table, went to a small side table laden with salted and smoked fish, sardines, fat herring in oil, boiled ham, smoked tongue, cold boiled eggs, potted crabs, pickles, cheese, bread and butter, and standing around the table helped themselves with a fork to a choice morsel, now here, now there, which they washed down with small glasses of gin, brandy, and a liquor called kummel, made from caraway seeds. At every dinner in Sweden you will see the men, and often many ladies, apparently making a good meal from the varied assortment on this side table, and then they sit down to a regular dinner of several courses. It goes without saying, that to one unaccustomed to its use, the smörgasbord, instead of increasing the appetite, causes it to quickly disappear.

It was Sunday afternoon, and we drove out to a large park, a popular resort of the people, where, under the trees and in shady quiet nooks, families and groups of friends were enjoying basket picnics and a healthful rest, in a quiet and orderly manner. Among the females there was an entire absence of hats and bonnets, all wearing upon the head black silk handkerchiefs edged with lace and bead trimming, while those in mourning wore handkerchiefs with wide borders of crape; these were all alike both for old and young, and the general effect was decidedly funereal, though they heightened the charm of the fresh, rosy complexions of the young maidens.

The park has fine, natural growths of trees, and is laid out into drives and walks; and from a lofty ledge of rock there is an extensive view of the city, harbor, and bay with its numerous rocky islands.

A glance at the map of Sweden will show that the country between Gothenburg and Stockholm is largely occupied by lakes; in fact, it is computed that the lakes of Sweden cover nearly one-eighth of its whole area, and the largest lakes in the country are located in the district between these two cities. Connecting links between this string of lakes have been made by a system of canals furnished with locks; rivers and natural water-courses have been rendered navigable, and a line of internal navigation made, connecting the Baltic with the Cattegat and the North Sea. The whole distance by the canal route from the North Sea to the Baltic is two hundred and sixty English miles. Baedeker states that the artificial part of this waterway, including seventy-four locks in all, is about fifty-six miles in length. Four of the locks are for regulating the level of the water. The highest point of the canal is where it enters Lake Vettern, three hundred feet above sea-level. The canal is forty-six feet wide at the bottom, eighty-six feet on the surface, and is ten feet in depth. About seven thousand barges and small steamers annually ply between the North Sea and Lake Venern, and three thousand between Lake Venern and the Baltic. The different parts of the canal between Gothenburg and Stockholm are known collectively as the Gotha Canal; it is the most important system in Sweden, where engineers have accomplished so much in perfecting internal communication.

We decided to make the journey from Gothenburg to Stockholm by the canal route, rather than by railway, although Baedeker strongly recommends travellers in no case to make the whole journey by steamer, as it would prove extremely tiresome and monotonous, and states that the steamers leave much to be desired in point of comfort. Our experience proved directly the opposite; and we look back upon it as one of the most enjoyable parts of our journey in the North, and it shows that the little red book is not infallible, and that a traveller must use his own judgment in the selection of routes.

The “Venus,” which bore us from Gothenburg at noon, is a trim and snug little steamer, stubby and thick-set in build, being a little less than one hundred feet long, that she may just fit into the locks of the canals. There are six first-class cabins, cosy and comfortable, each accommodating two persons, and the space at the stern is occupied by a family arrangement of berths, so that there are accommodations for twenty or more first-class passengers in all. There is a small dining saloon forward, besides quarters for second and third class passengers. As we stood on the upper deck, we looked at our neighbors, forming our impressions of them. One man, wearing rather a shabby nautical suit, and big coarse shoes with rubber soles, we decided was one of the deck hands, until he cocked an eyeglass in his right eye. Heaven save the mark! he proved to be an English marquis! A few pleasant Englishmen, a jolly young Irish gentleman, and a lively Viennese couple, made up the passenger list. As we gathered around the festive smörgasbord and partook of its assorted contents, although our appetites seemed sufficiently stimulated, and then sat down to our first dinner in what was to be our home during the next two and a half days, the social ice was broken, and we soon became talkative and acquainted.

A neat and graceful Swedish maiden, a personified Venus, served us with a well-cooked and palatable dinner. Our ticket, including passage and state-room, cost thirty crowns (eight dollars). The meals were extra, and cost for the whole trip two dollars and a half, making the total expense less than eleven dollars. A dinner for a gentleman costs two crowns, for a child one crown, while the heavenly medium of one crown and a half was the charge for a lady. By this arrangement, what was lost on a lady with a large appetite was gained on a gentleman who was a small eater.

When the dinner was finished, a long and narrow account-book was handed to the gentleman at the head of the table; he entered the number of his state-room, and then began a meal account in Swedish, entering his dinner as en Middag med Öl (one dinner with beer), and the charge which appeared in the list of prices for each meal. This book was passed to each one at the table after every meal, the keeping of the account being left wholly to the individual, and it never seemed to be verified. At the end of the journey each one settled his account as he had kept it, and its correctness was not questioned.

Our course was up the Gotha river, and the latter part of the afternoon we arrived at the Trollhätta Falls, a series of rapids and waterfalls formed by the river, which proved the chief obstacle to the construction of the Gotha Canal. The canal extends for two miles at the side of the river to a point above these rapids, and a series of eleven locks form a gigantic staircase, by which vessels ascend and descend between the North Sea and Lake Venern, one hundred and forty-four feet above. As it requires over two hours for a vessel to pass through the locks, we left the “Venus,” and, under the guidance of a small urchin, followed a narrow winding path through the fragrant fir and pine woods, and along the river’s bank, visiting the various falls, six in number. The finest is the Toppö Fall, forty-two feet high, which is divided by an island reached by a frail, swinging suspension bridge. The great volume of water plunging down the narrow space between precipitous walls of rock renders the falls imposing, and in this respect they are unsurpassed in Europe. The rapids above the various falls are similar to those above and below Niagara, but the Gotha river is much narrower. The roar of the waters, as they rushed and foamed among the great boulders scattered through the rocky ravine, was quite inspiring; but the picturesqueness of the scene was marred by the saw-mills and manufactories along the banks. We were shown the usual collection of Giant’s Cauldrons, Devil’s Kettles, and towers commanding extensive views, and visited the locks of an abandoned canal, which mark the first attempt to pass by these dangerous cataracts.

We arrived at the little village of Torghätta, above the falls, before the “Venus,” and our walk having whetted our appetites we entered a small inn, where, in an upper room with quaint old furnishings, we gathered around the table laden with the varied collection of the smörgasbord. One of the most motherly of old women, in quaint headgear and figured kerchief, brought in fresh supplies, and divined, rather than understood, our few Swedish words. We there tasted the Swedish bread called knäckebröd, made of rye and barley baked in thin circular sheets, eighteen inches in diameter, of the nature of pilot bread or hard tack. It has a liberal sprinkling of anise and caraway seeds, and is crisp and brittle, and pleasant to the taste, but it sadly lacks filling qualities, for one can munch away upon it by the hour, and still seem to have eaten nothing. The plates were piled two feet high with the sheets of knäckebröd, and there seemed an inexhaustible supply when we entered, yet they were nearly at low-water level when we shook hands with the dear old lady and went aboard the “Venus.”

We soon arrived at Venersborg, a town completely surrounded by water, situated at the point where the Gotha river emerges from Lake Venern. As we remained here for half an hour, we left the steamer for a stroll about town; but we found that, like most of the little Swedish towns, it was paved with cobble stones, both sidewalks and roadways; and after ten minutes our feet ached from the pointed stones, and to those wearing tennis shoes the walk became a torture, which we soon ended by returning to the “Venus.”

Lake Venern, one hundred miles long and in places fifty miles wide, is the largest of the Swedish lakes. We passed the night in crossing the lake diagonally, and it proved a smooth passage, though at times severe storms rage here, the same as upon our large inland seas.

It was the thirteenth of June, the season of long days. At quarter past nine the sun set almost due north; the heavens were ablaze in gold, crimson, and purple, burning in deep colors for over an hour. The twilight was indescribable; so light was it that at half past ten we read with ease the finest print, and not until after eleven did the light perceptibly diminish, and the last trace of the sunset’s coloring fade from the clouds.

The scenery of Sweden cannot be called beautiful, but it is very pretty; it is mild, quiet, and pastoral in its nature, and has much sameness.

Low hills, small lakes, forests of fir and pine, cultivated fields with farmhouses painted red, quiet little villages with small wooden houses and a rustic church,—such are the features of the country traversed by the canal before we reach Lake Vettern, the most beautiful of the great lakes, eighty miles long and twelve wide. The hills on its banks are higher, and the scenery much finer than along the shores of Lake Venern.

Motala is a picturesque place on the east shore of the lake, and here we take on a large addition of passengers, among them a bevy of boarding-school girls returning to their homes in Stockholm. Each girl was decorated with flowers; bunches of flowers were pinned to their hats, and long garlands adorned their dresses. There were very effusive leave-takings, and as the “Venus” bore them from their companions on the quay, the deck was showered with bouquets, and handkerchiefs fluttered until the quay vanished from sight. School girls are the same the world around—chattering, laughing, and full of life. Before they had finished dinner we were all acquainted, and those who could speak English and German were in animated conversation.

When the “meal book” went the rounds for the making up of accounts, the young gentleman from Dublin, instead of the customary en Middag med Öl, entered upon his account one mad dog with oil, which horrified the girls who could comprehend an English pun.

The girls had been to a practical finishing school, where they had been taught all kinds of needle-work, dressmaking, cooking, and everything pertaining to housekeeping. They had made the tasty dresses they wore, and although we had an extra good dinner that day, yet they all declared they could cook a better one. In the school there had been no studying, but while they were busy with the needle one of their number read aloud; they also took turns in being housekeeper and having entire charge of the house. They were well-informed and intelligent young ladies from good families, and were evidently well fitted for practical life.

Our journey now led through a series of small and pretty lakes, connected by canals with many locks, whose course is descending, as Lake Vettern, which we had just left, lies three hundred feet above the Baltic. While the “Venus” was passing through the locks, we walked on the banks of the “raging canal,” a merry party, the Viennese lady acting as chaperon. We were wholly misled as to time by the long lingering twilight, and only turned back when we discovered it was fast approaching midnight; finding the “Venus” in a lock we went aboard to disturbed slumbers, as she passed most of the night in going through locks, and in receiving a liberal supply of bumps.

When we went on deck in the morning we seemed to be in the midst of a deep forest, the canal being like a path through the woods, the branches of the trees meeting above our heads. Later we came out among small rocky islands, where we appeared to be completely shut in, and it was difficult to divine which course the steamer would take, until a sudden turn disclosed an egress. Farther on the course is partly on the open Baltic, and partly among the great ledges of rock flanking the coast, where the intricate navigation requires the utmost skill of the pilot, until we enter the canal connecting the Baltic with Lake Mälar.

While stopping at a little village, women and children gathered around the steamer with baskets filled with kringlor (ring-shaped cakes) and pepperkakor (gingerbread), specialties of the place, and as they were well patronized everyone was soon munching from a paper bag.

Lake Mälar has twelve hundred islands, and is similar in scenery to the beautiful region of the Thousand Islands of the St. Lawrence river. We now enter upon the most interesting part of our journey. As we proceed down the lake towards Stockholm, we pass an island called the King’s Hat, from a rock surmounted by a pole bearing a large iron hat, to commemorate the tradition that Olaf Haraldssön, a Norwegian king, when pursued by a king of Sweden, sprang with his horse from the cliff into the lake and escaped, leaving his hat behind. On the islands are villas and country houses, their summer residents gracing the lawns and rocks; from concert gardens, gay with flags, festoons, and colored globes, float strains of music across the water, while numerous pleasure steamers and gay boating parties, going from island to island, enliven the scene.

Down the lake, first a lofty spire, then several towers, come into view. What appears in the distance like a cloud of smoke floating above the houses on each side of a tall tower, we discover on approaching nearer to be a network of telephone wires, stretching above the roofs, converging to the immense standard tower above the central office. Now we have a striking view of Stockholm, rising on islands and cliffs from the lake, with its harbor and quays full of shipping, and the palace and church towers standing out prominently.

We say farewell to the officers of the “Venus,” all of whom speak excellent English and have done their utmost to make our voyage pleasant; the school girls flutter into the arms of their parents and friends awaiting on the quay, and our little company of travellers proceed to the same hotel, leaving the “Venus” with most pleasant recollections of our journey across Sweden.

IN AND ABOUT STOCKHOLM.

CHAPTER III.
IN AND ABOUT STOCKHOLM.

The Islands and Features of the City—The Westminster Abbey of Sweden—Interesting Museums—The Leading City for Telephones—Scenes at Evening Concerts—The Multitude of Excursions—Down the Baltic to Vaxholm—Royal Castles on the Lake—The University Town of Upsala.

The Grand Hotel is, next to the Royal Palace, the most imposing building in Stockholm. It is situated on a broad quay, near the National Museum, opposite the Palace, overlooking the bridge over the junction of Lake Mälar with the bay of the Baltic, and is near the concert gardens, public parks, and the centre of the city’s activity. Though its appointments are quite palatial, its charges are moderate, a comfortable room costing, with attendance, but eighty cents a day, and one is free to take his meals wherever he chooses.

No city of its size contains so many fine restaurants as Stockholm, and one quickly falls into the custom of the natives of dining at restaurants, in parks and concert gardens, among trees and flowers in the open air, with the accompaniment of good orchestral music. The food is well cooked and inexpensive, and one can live well at a daily expense of less than two dollars for room and meals.

Stockholm, a city of 175,000 inhabitants, is more interesting from its situation than from any striking beauty of its streets and buildings. It is built upon nine islands and the mainland, at the point where Lake Mälar flows into the Baltic Bay, nearly forty miles from the Baltic proper. One of the larger islands contains the immense Royal Palace, a prominent feature in every view of the city, and constitutes with two adjoining islands the headquarters of trade and shipping. This is the oldest part of the town and is called “the city,” it having been the nucleus of the city in its early history, and it was many years before its limits were extended beyond these three islands. The mainland to the south rises abruptly from the water in lofty cliffs; long flights of steps and zigzag streets lead to the top, and an elevator takes passengers up for five öre (a cent and a third), while the charge descending is three öre (four-fifths of a cent), to catch the people who are more liable to walk down. This part of the city is only interesting from its extended views. From the Mosebacke on the summit, one of the finest restaurants in the vicinity, is spread out a delightful view of the city on its islands, of the shipping and traffic on the Baltic Bay and Lake Mälar, and the islands and wooded mainland in the distance.

One of the smaller islands is chiefly occupied by naval and military establishments, and connected with it by a bridge is the Castle island, with barracks and a small fortress. On the mainland to the north is the substantial and well-built modern quarter, with wide streets containing the chief shops, hotels, parks, and museums.

The Riddarholms church in “the city” is the Westminster Abbey of Sweden, as for centuries it has been the burial-place of kings and the most celebrated men of the land. The walls of the nave are hung with battle flags and the armorial bearings of the knights of the Seraphim Order, the highest in Sweden; at the sides are burial chapels, in the aisles are burial vaults and monuments, and you walk over a pavement of tombstones. On the right of the high altar is the chapel, where, in a green marble sarcophagus, repose the remains of Gustavus Adolphus, the most famous of all the Swedish kings, who ranks as one of the ablest military commanders of his age, who by his brilliant victories and career raised Sweden to the proudest position she has ever occupied in history. Between the windows of this chapel are Austrian, Russian, and other battle flags,—trophies of his victories. Adjoining is the Bernadotte chapel, containing in a porphyry sarcophagus the remains of Charles XIV. John, the founder of the present ruling dynasty. During the reign of the childless and unpopular Charles XIII., the dominant party in Sweden, with the idea of conciliating Napoleon, elected Bernadotte, one of his generals, as crown prince. By his steady support of the allies against Napoleon, he obtained at the congress of Vienna possession of Norway, when that country separated from Denmark. In 1818 he succeeded to the throne, and though at first the nation entertained very little regard for their alien sovereign, yet he and his successors have so advanced the material prosperity of the united kingdoms of Sweden and Norway, and have so identified themselves with the interests and national peculiarities of their subjects, that they have won their affection and loyalty.

Beneath the chapels are the vaults containing the remains of the members of successive ruling families. There is nothing beautiful nor impressive about the church; the interior is bare and dingy, every one walks about wearing his hat, without any outward respect for the place or its occupants; people rush down the steps leading to the burial vaults, crowd against each other, peer through the iron bars of the gates at the coffins in the dusky interior, with the same eager curiosity as if viewing the victims at a morgue. Religious services are held here only on the occasion of a royal funeral.

The National Museum is a handsome building in the Renaissance style. It comprises an historical collection of all kinds of objects, from prehistoric to the present time; a collection of ancient and modern sculpture, armor, and weapons; and upon the upper floor a picture gallery, which is of little importance when compared with the famous galleries of Europe; the paintings, however, by modern artists, of Swedish life, scenery, and historical incidents are very interesting, particularly those by Tidemand. In a room containing a display of the coronation robes, uniforms, and gala costumes of the Swedish kings and queens are shown the blood-stained clothes worn by Gustavus Adolphus during his battles in Prussia, and the sheet in which his body was wrapped after the battle of Lützen.

In a small square at the side of the Museum is the Bältespännare, an excellent bronze statue, giving a spirited representation of the old Scandinavian duel, where the combatants were bound together by a belt at the waist, and fought with knives until one, or both, were killed. It is said that the women were wont to carry winding sheets for their husbands when they attended banquets where quarrels were likely to occur. On the pedestal are four bas-reliefs showing the origin and result of the duel—jealousy, drinking, the beginning of the combat, and the widow’s lament. In the last the widow is represented kneeling in grief before the tomb of her husband, the dead duellist.

The Northern Museum is interesting from its figures in costumes, representing peasant groups, brides adorned with heavy gold and silver crowns and trinkets, and family scenes with reproductions of interiors. In one large group of Laplanders, where some are seated in sledges drawn by reindeer, and other figures are gathered about a tent, were several stuffed dogs, as we thought, lying before the tent. They looked so natural that we could not refrain from chirping to them, when with a bound they sprang towards us, much to our dismay, for we expected to see the whole stuffed collection come to life.

There is a large collection of household articles, costumes, and ornaments, all interesting, as they illustrate the everyday life of the people in remote regions, or in past years. Hung against the wall were curious articles in wood, two feet long and six inches wide, with a smooth flat surface on the under side; they were elaborately painted and had handles carved grotesquely, and were used for ironing linen. We saw chairs made of the trunk of a tree, into the seat of which had been driven human teeth, in the belief that this would be a preventive of toothache in the future.

The young women who served as attendants in the Museum were dressed in the Dalecarlia costume, and we saw many in the same picturesque costume about the streets of Stockholm. It consists of a high peaked black cap with red piping along the seams, and a border of white trimming where it rests upon the head; a bright handkerchief worn over a loose sleeved white waist; a skirt of dark blue homespun with little bodice trimmed with red, and a rainbow-striped apron extending in front to the bottom of the dress, complete the striking costume. The jaunty cap sets off the rosy cheeks and fresh complexions of the “midnight sunbeams” thus adorned, while an abundance of silver trinkets, and a small bag swung over the shoulder by a gayly embroidered strap, render it the prettiest costume we saw in the North.

In our walks about the city, we constantly saw in the shop windows—Telephone ten öre; where such a notice is displayed any one is at liberty to enter and use a telephone at a cost of two and three quarters cents. We were told by a resident connected with the central office that, in proportion to its inhabitants, Stockholm has more telephones than any city in the world. We judged there must be a large number of subscribers, from the vast network of telephone wires which was the first thing to attract our attention as we approached the city in coming down Lake Mälar. Stockholm may be slow in obtaining new inventions, but when they come they are generally adopted.

The city has a good horse-car system, with large open cars the same as ours; one can make the complete circuit of the city at the cost of ten öre (two and three quarters cents). The conductor collected the fares in a closed box, much like a child’s bank, and if one did not happen to have the right change, he was given a sealed package of small money to enable him to make his contribution.

It seemed strange indeed to start after nine o’clock to walk out of the city to a high hill, to view the sunset. The sunset coloring is gorgeous, lingering for a long time, and succeeded by a twilight so bright, that at eleven o’clock one can read the finest print. This long twilight is the most enjoyable part of the whole day, and every one is out of doors. The people gather in the King’s Garden, a beautiful public resort adorned with statues of kings, fountains, and bright parterres of flowers; or in the Berzelii Park with its pleasant promenades. Adjacent to both are cafés and concert gardens, bright with lights more for decoration than for use, where bands or orchestras in brightly lighted music pavilions, furnish popular music for the entertainment of the merry throng seated at small round tables under the trees, sipping black coffee, eating ices, and drinking toddy, or the famous Swedish punch made of arrack, wine, and sugar. The stronger liquors seem to be more in vogue than beer, though the latter is good, but stronger and not so pleasant to the taste as German beer.

Within the restaurants, or upon the wide verandas, are gathered family groups and lively supper parties; all are laughing and talking, the busy waiters in dress suits are taking and delivering orders and pocketing fees, and the whole scene is one of great animation.

The Strömparterre is a popular evening resort on an island just below the palace, connected by the Norrbro bridge with the fine quays on each side. It is where the waters of Lake Mälar mingle with those of the Baltic Bay, and is the great centre of the city’s activity, and the principal starting point for the little steamers running in all directions.

Every evening on the brightly illuminated island there is a band concert. Whoever takes a seat at one of the tables before the band stand is expected to order something, but to the crowd of people who sit on the settees at the sides, who stand, or promenade outside the tables, the music is furnished “without money and without price.” All over Stockholm, on little islands, and at the Mosebacke on the heights, are evening concerts which are thronged until midnight, and the glare of lights, and the sound of music is wafted over the quiet waters.

The Swedes make the most of every pleasant hour of their short summer; when they slept we never knew, for even at midnight, as we went to our hotel, the streets were filled with people, and many were still sitting beneath the trees in the gardens; perhaps they hibernate during the long winter, and sleep enough for the whole year.

The Djurgard (deer park) is a delightful public park, occupying an island two miles long and about a mile wide situated a short distance down the Baltic Bay, and is reached by horse-cars and several lines of small steamers. It contains many restaurants and cafés, where concerts are given both day and evening, the finest of them all being the Hasselbacken, a favorite resort for dinner parties; there are also numerous summer theatres and places of popular amusement, among them a Tivoli, which is a very inferior copy of its model at Copenhagen.

The park has mostly been left in its natural state; drives and walks extend through its stretches of grassy lawn and natural forest, furnishing views, through occasional openings, of the rocky islands and shipping in the Baltic. A royal villa called Rosendal is situated on the northern side of the park, and upon a hill has been built a tower called the Belvedere, from which there is a view of Stockholm and its surroundings. Many private villas have been built on the island, and at one end near the water is an asylum for the deaf, dumb, and blind; yet a few paces away the rocky ledges and leafy solitudes give the impression that one is a long distance from civilization.

As in Stockholm water is so plentiful and bridges comparatively few, there is an abundance of little steam launches taking passengers for a few öre across the water, or up and down the bay from one island to another. The multitude of these little boats, the steamers running to places on the lake and up the fjords of the bay, together with the large sea-going steamers going out upon the Baltic and to foreign lands, present a scene of ever-changing variety and animation.

The delightful excursions one can make by steamer are the chief charm of Stockholm. They seem innumerable, and I think if one passed the entire summer there he could take a new excursion every day. The long lines of steamers drawn up to the quays, and the lists of places to which they run, were perfectly bewildering; our limited stay permitted us to visit only the most attractive points.

Sight-seeing at Stockholm furnished a restful variety. The mornings were devoted to the museums and sights of the city, the afternoons to steamer excursions up the lake or down the bay, returning for dinner to one of the garden restaurants, and the evenings were passed at the open-air concerts.

The trip by steamer to Vaxholm occupies an hour and a half; we pass down the Baltic Bay, full of small islands, at many of which, and at points on the mainland, the steamer touches to leave passengers, bound for their country seats scattered along the beautiful wooded shores. The whole family are on the wharf awaiting the steamer’s arrival; paterfamilias is kissed and embraced, the olive branches seize upon his baskets and bundles, and as we steam away the little groups disappear down shady walks, or gather on the wide piazzas of their summer homes. Vaxholm is a small island of rock, a favorite resort of the residents of Stockholm for sea-bathing, who have built here small wooden houses in which they pass the summer. A fortress covers the greater part of an island near by, which commands the only practical approach to Stockholm for large sea-going vessels. In a field beyond the houses of Vaxholm several companies of soldiers were being drilled; from a platform crowning the summit of a rocky ledge we overlooked their movements, and enjoyed the view of the Baltic, thickly strewed with islands and detached masses and ledges of rock emerging from the dark waters.

The royal castle of Ulriksdal is reached by steamer, after a journey of constantly increasing beauty of scenery as we ascend the fjord, with its fertile and wooded shores; the fjord becomes very narrow as we approach the castle, situated on the water’s edge, embowered in trees, with a pleasing prospect of blue waters framed in by green hills. We walked through a fine avenue of noble trees called the Ulriksdal Allée, extending for a mile to a lake, which unfolded lovely views as we crossed by steamer to Haga, and took the horse-cars back to Stockholm.

Another enjoyable excursion is by steamer among the islands of Lake Mälar to the palace of Drottningholm, built upon a large island, where the royal family generally reside from August until October. The palace contains an imposing double staircase, and handsomely furnished apartments commanding views of the gardens and lake. One hall contains portraits of Oscar I. and his reigning contemporaries, among them a very flattering one of Queen Victoria. Near the palace is a theatre, and a Chinese pagoda containing a collection of Chinese curiosities. The gardens are laid out in the old French style, and are adorned with statues, fountains, and parterres of flowers, while the park, with its fine old trees and greensward, abounds in pleasant walks and drives.

Gripsholm, farther up the lake, is a mediæval castle with picturesque towers and battlements rising from the water, amid dark green trees. Many historical souvenirs cluster around this old castle, which are mostly connected with the sons of Gustavus Vasa. It has been fitted up as a museum, and contains a very extensive collection of portraits of royal and historical personages, and many interesting pieces of ancient furniture, tapestry, and plate.

Forty miles by railway, north of Stockholm, is Upsala, the famous university town of Sweden, the historical and intellectual centre of the kingdom, and the stronghold of ancient paganism. On the brow of a hill, approached by a fine granite terrace and wide flights of steps, is the handsome modern University building of brick, with granite trimmings. The foundation of the University dates from 1477; it has been richly endowed by successive kings, and numbers about fifteen hundred students, who are distinguished about the quiet streets by their small white caps.

Opposite the University is the ancient Gothic cathedral, whose chief object of interest is the tomb of Gustavus Vasa, who lies buried between his first two wives, while number three is interred in a different part of the chapel; the sides of the burial chapel are frescoed with scenes from his life.

The sleepy little town was rather disappointing: its streets are paved with small cobble stones, there are a few promenades, small parks, and concert gardens, with here and there a large building connected with the University, containing a library or a laboratory. On a barren hill is the large and ugly castle built by Gustavus Vasa, commanding an extended view of the surrounding country, in which Gamla Upsala (Old Upsala), three miles away, is visible.

At Old Upsala are the three Kungshögar (king’s heights), mounds over fifty feet high, said to mark the graves of Odin, Thor, and Freya, the three great gods of Scandinavian mythology. Two of these mounds have been opened and a few bones and an urn found.

Another mound is called the Tingshög (assize-hill), from which the ancient kings used to harangue their subjects.

The splendid temple adorned with gold, within which sat the statues of Odin, Thor, and Freya, and the sacred grove adjoining, have disappeared leaving no vestige behind; but a quaint little stone church is said to mark the site of this most sacred shrine of Scandinavian worship, around which clustered the principal traditions of Northern mythology.

RAILWAY JOURNEY TO
THRONDHJEM.

CHAPTER IV.
RAILWAY JOURNEY TO THRONDHJEM.

Swedish Railways and Meal Stations—Among the Snow Banks—The Descent to Throndhjem—The Shrine of St. Olaf—North Cape Steamers.

From Upsala we started on a railway journey of four hundred and ninety-four miles across Sweden to Throndhjem (Drontheim in English), on the west coast of Norway, the distance being accomplished in thirty hours, allowing liberal stops for meals en route.

Only second and third class carriages are run upon the road, a second class ticket costing $11.25 for the entire journey.

The second class carriages are very comfortable, and are constructed on the same plan as those in Austria, and like those now becoming quite common throughout Germany. You enter from platforms at the ends, a narrow passage extends the length of the car along one side, upon which open the compartments by double sliding doors. When the compartment doors are open a view is obtained from both sides, and when weary from long-continued sitting one can walk up and down the passage. There are toilet conveniences at one end, and the whole arrangement is a great improvement over the old style, where the compartments are entered from the sides and are entirely separated.

The railway, which was completed in 1882, passes through the eastern part of the great mining district of Sweden, particularly rich in iron and copper mines, and also possessing lead, nickel, zinc, and a few gold and silver mines. The scenery is rather uninteresting, and the small villages of plain wooden houses have little to attract one’s notice. At one place we saw, across the road near the station, a wooden building bearing a sign along its entire length, with this word in large capital letters, all of a size: “J. JOHNSSONSDIVERSHANDEL” (J. Johnson’s variety store), which is as long a word as some of its German cousins.

On the Swedish time tables, a crossed knife and fork before the name of a station signifies that it is a meal station. Our first experience was at Storvik, where we arrived about four o’clock for dinner.

We entered a dining room, around which were arranged little tables covered with snowy linen; in the centre stood a large table, one end spread with the usual diversified collection of the smörgasbord, at the other were piles of plates, knives, forks, and napkins. The soup is brought in and placed on the central table; each one helps himself, and, taking it to one of the small tables, eats at his leisure; the soup finished you serve yourself with fish, roast meats, chicken, and vegetables, in quantity and variety as you choose, and return to your table. The servants replenish the supplies on the large table, remove soiled plates and bring tea, coffee, beer, or wine, as ordered, to the occupants of the small tables, but each one must serve himself from the various courses, ending with pudding and nuts and raisins. There was none of the hurry, bustle, and crowding usually encountered in a railway restaurant, but plenty of time was given for a quiet, comfortable meal, with no necessity for bolting your food.

For this abundant and well-cooked dinner the charge was forty cents,—tea, coffee, beer, and wine being extra. Your word was taken without questioning regarding the extras, as you paid for them and your dinner at the table from which the coffee was dispensed. The matter of payment was left entirely to the individual, and it never, apparently, had entered the manager’s mind that one could easily have walked off, without first conferring with the woman at the coffee urn.

After dinner there was time for a short walk up and down the platform, and then we continued our journey through a country where the rail fences, red farm houses, pine trees, and abundance of stumps and rocks, made us imagine we were in Maine or New Hampshire, instead of on the other side of the “great pond.” The scenery improved, and in places was beautiful, especially as we skirted the shores of a chain of lakes formed by the Ljusne river; and under a sky burning with the gorgeous coloring of a brilliant Northern sunset, we arrived at half-past nine at the little station where we were to take supper. Here was the same arrangement as at dinner, each one waiting upon himself, and a good supper of fish, hot and cold meats, eggs, tea and coffee was furnished for thirty cents, which is likewise the charge for a substantial breakfast.

There were few passengers on the train, and during most of the day we two had had a compartment to ourselves. There are no sleeping cars on the route, so as it was getting late we closed and fastened the doors of our compartment, drew the curtains to shut out the bright light of the Northern night, and lying on the long seats covered with our thick railway rugs slept undisturbed, until suddenly awakened by a loud rapping at our door. The train was in a station, female voices were calling to us in Swedish, and we sprang up anxious to learn the cause of this unlooked-for visitation. But when the door was opened, the dear creatures beat a hasty retreat the moment they saw us, and evidently were as surprised as ourselves at our meeting; as we soon heard their voices in a neighboring compartment, we knew they had found those they were seeking.

At five o’clock in the morning we arrived at Ostersund, where the train stopped for an hour. We paid four cents and entered a toilet room with marble wash-bowls, brushes, an abundance of fresh towels, and that article which is never furnished free in Europe—soap. After taking bread and coffee, and a brisk walk, we felt as fresh and rested as though we had passed the night in the state-room of a vestibule Pullman.

We had previously congratulated each other on having a compartment to ourselves; on resuming our journey, during the entire forenoon, we were the sole occupants of a whole car.

We skirt the shores of a series of lakes connected by rivers, and then through a dreary country ascend the range of mountains separating Sweden from Norway. We pass through snow sheds, and between high board fences built to keep the drifting snow from the track (both much simpler in construction than those along the roads crossing the Rocky Mountains), and in the midst of snow banks, enveloped in a thick chilling mist, arrive at Storlien, two thousand feet above sea-level, the last station in Sweden. We gather for the last time about the smörgasbord (we never saw it later in Norway), and a good dinner cheers us in our desolate surroundings.

Then we enter the Norwegian train of second and third class carriages, on the common European model of compartments entered from the sides, with the second class, in their fittings, fully equal to the first of many other countries, and begin the descent to the sea coast. The snow mountains are veiled by clouds, there is little vegetation, barren rocks are succeeded by marshy land and swamps, but soon we emerge from the mist into bright sunshine.

We are the only occupants of the second class carriage; the guard, who speaks English, opens the door as we arrive at a station and tells us how long we are to stop, and following the general custom we get out for a few minutes’ walk, and to look at the natives.

We were both intently reading when the door opened and the guard made this startling announcement: “Gentlemen, this is Hell; we stop five minutes.” We hastily left our seats to see the place against which we had been warned all our lives, hoping at least to refresh ourselves with a few glasses of sulphur water. No fumes of sulphur, no odor of brimstone greeted us, but instead, “a nipping and an eager air” enveloped the forlorn little settlement, even on that summer afternoon. Whatever Hell may signify in Norwegian, this place is decidedly different as regards climate from that of the same name mentioned in King James’ version.

Descending from Hell the railroad runs for a long distance close to the edge of the lovely Throndhjem fjord, with its transparent waters, clusters of islands, and on the opposite side its deeply indented and darkly wooded shores, with a background of pale blue mountains. Then we roll into the most northern railway station in the world, and are in Throndhjem, a city of 23,000 inhabitants, the third largest city in Norway, situated on a line with the south coast of Iceland.

The houses are mostly built of wood, on very wide streets as a protection against the spread of conflagrations. At the head of a long street stands the cathedral, the most interesting edifice in the North. It is built over the burial site of St. Olaf, the Norwegian king who first introduced Christianity into his country, at the end of the tenth century. A succession of fires has destroyed the interior, which for years has been in process of restoration, and at the present time the nave, from the transepts to the west end, is given up to masons and stone-cutters, who are busy upon its reconstruction.

The choir ends in an exquisitely sculptured octagon formerly containing the relics of St. Olaf, on the south side of which is St. Olaf’s well. Tradition assures us that it burst forth from the place where the saint was buried. The early kings of Norway were crowned and buried here, and, by the present constitution, every king of Sweden and Norway is required to repair to Throndhjem for coronation in this historic cathedral.

Surrounding this old edifice is the “cathedral garden,” so called, a graveyard where each grave is buried beneath flowering shrubs, with vases of fresh-cut flowers before the tombstones, and where the seats beside the graves bespeak an unbroken connection between the living and the dead.

Rising on a high hill just back of the town is an old fortress, now disused, although a sentry still keeps guard upon one of its ramparts. We climbed thither in the twilight, to enjoy the extended view over the old city, with its background of rugged hills, and the river Nid winding through it, with picturesque bridges, old wooden warehouses, and shipping along its quays. Out in the blue fjord is the little island called Munkholm, covered by a fortress commanding the harbor, small islands rise from the water, and across the wide fjord wooded hills extend upward from the shores, and the view is closed by distant mountains.

In one of the streets we saw throngs of peasants, who had come into the city to the weekly market, bringing butter and produce, besides an endless variety of cheeses, rolls of homespun cloth, and linen from the hand-loom. We strolled along the quays, interested in the shipping and the sea-faring men, and visited the finer buildings in the city, built of stone, occupied by shops with a fine display of goods; but we found the place chiefly interesting from its natural beauty and situation.

Our first impression of the Norwegians was a favorable one, for as we left the hotel and were vainly trying to find our way to a steamship office with an unpronounceable name, we asked a man both in English and German to direct us. Not understanding, but finding out where we wished to go from our pointing to the name in our guide book, he immediately turned and conducted us a long distance, and even when we were within sight of the building would not leave us until we arrived at the very doorway, when he politely touched his hat and disappeared before we had a chance to thank him.

During June and July Throndhjem is full of tourists, who take the steamer here for the North Cape and the regions of the midnight sun.

The steamers start from Christiania and Bergen, but most travellers, instead of taking the long and disagreeable voyage along the coast, go directly from Christiania to Throndhjem by rail, a distance of three hundred and sixty miles. From the middle of June until the end of July two tourist steamers leave Bergen and Throndhjem weekly, and make the trip from Throndhjem to the North Cape and return in eight days. These steamers are handsomely fitted up, take only first-class passengers, and stop at but few places, yet in their course they include the grandest features of the scenery. The price of round-trip tickets, including everything, varies from 250 to 350 crowns ($67.50 to $94.50) according to location of state-room and number occupying the same. There are also two lines of mail steamers coming from Christiania, which leave Throndhjem weekly for the North Cape, and a line of steamers from Hamburg to the North Cape and Vadsö, leaving Throndhjem once a week. The mail steamers run up the fjords along the coast, call at all of the little out-of-the-way places, and occupy eleven days in the round trip between Throndhjem and the North Cape.

The ticket, including passage and state-room, costs 111 crowns ($30), and there is a daily charge, for meals and attendance, of five and a half crowns, making $16.50 for the meals, and a total of $46.50 for the cost of the round trip.

As our object was to see as much of the country and people as possible, and as we preferred to save half the cost of the journey to three days of time, we engaged passage in a mail steamer, and shall always consider ourselves very fortunate to have made this decision; for since making the journey we have often compared experiences with travellers who have been by the tourist steamers, and have found that we saw much more, visited more points of interest, and learned more about the people and the country.

THE NORWEGIAN NORDLAND.

CHAPTER V.
THE NORWEGIAN NORDLAND.

The Ever-Present Salmon—A Cheese Exhibition—The Blessed Island Belt—Torghätta and the Seven Sisters—Scenes within the Arctic Circle—Visit to the Svartisen Glacier—Coasting along the Lofoden Islands—Sea Fowl and Eider Ducks—Reindeer Swimming across the Fjord.

At noon, June 23rd, we stood on the deck of the mail steamer “Kong Halfdan”; the last passenger with boxes and luggage had come aboard, the bridge was drawn in, cables thrown off, we drew out from the wharf, and steamed down the fjord on our long journey to the North Cape.

The captain, mates, and stewards all spoke English, that being one of the requirements for the holding of their positions, and they were well informed, social, and obliging. We were satisfied with the fittings of the steamer which was to be our home during the next eleven days, and though they were not elegant, they were comfortable, and everything was neat and clean. The state-rooms, each for two persons, contain plush sofas at the sides, converted into berths at night, and between these sofas, beneath the port hole, is a washstand forming a table when closed. Our luggage and belongings were stowed away under the sofas, and arranged in racks and on hooks. There are accommodations for twenty-four first-class passengers. The saloon is at the stern, fitted with an upholstered plush seat extending around the sides, with two tables down the centre, at which we gathered three times daily. On deck is a smoking-room, the chief resort of both ladies and gentlemen, who spend most of the time there when it is too cold or stormy to sit beneath the awning, upon the deck in its rear.

At two o’clock we assembled for dinner, consisting of soup, boiled salmon, entrées, roast meats, and delicious cakes and pastries.

Almost the first word the tourist will learn in Norway is Lax (salmon), for he is absolutely certain to see it upon the table every day during his stay in the country. During our steamer trip we were served with salmon three times daily; it came upon the table boiled, fried, broiled, and smoked; we were served with salmon salad, salmon jelly, and salmon pudding.

The pudding is the chef d’œuvre of the Norwegian cook’s art. The fish is first separated from the bones, cut into small pieces, and after being chopped fine is mixed with eggs, milk, and flour, seasoned with salt and pepper, and boiled in a mould. It is generally made from salmon and cod or halibut arranged in layers, and as it appears upon the table it looks like a mould of strawberry and vanilla ice-cream, or a variegated Italian cream or blanc mange. Its consistency is somewhat firmer than the last, and as we eat it for the first time at dinner, served after the soup, we were full of wondering and questioning as to what it could be. A lobster or shrimp sauce is eaten with it, and it forms a palatable dish; we did not relish it as well upon its second appearance at supper cut into slices and fried.

The smoked salmon is uncooked, and is cured and prepared much like smoked halibut. It always graces the breakfast table, and we became quite fond of it, although many dislike it exceedingly.

Notwithstanding the fact that the Norwegian salmon are considered the best in the world, and we took on new supplies of them at the little ports, where they had been taken fresh from the water, yet after sitting down to thirty-three meals in succession where Lax in some form was always one of the constituents, we must confess that, though we started upon the voyage with a great fondness for salmon, at its end Lax had lost all its charms.

But we never tired of the delicious lobsters we had every night for supper, which were big fellows like those formerly caught along the New England coast.

As we sat down to the supper table the first evening we imagined ourselves at a cheese exhibition, for arranged down the centre of the table were twelve different varieties of cheese. What they were named we never knew, but all tasted different, and ranged in strength from the mildest of cheese to the Gamla Ost (old cheese), which from its hoary, wizened, and furrowed appearance, seemed to be the grandfather of them all. The Mysost is made of goats’ milk boiled until the water is evaporated, forming a sort of sugar of milk, which is pressed into square cakes of a light chocolate color, weighing from two to five pounds. It is generally quite soft, is cut into extremely thin slices, and at first taste seems to be a sweetened mixture of soap and sand, but one can cultivate a taste for it and grow to like it. It is a great favorite with children and ladies, and often appears on the table enclosed in a case of tissue paper, which is perforated and cut into various ornamental designs, with a bright ribbon tied around the top.

Both at breakfast and supper the table was covered with an array of sardines, anchovies, caviar, fat herring in oil, cold hams, smoked reindeer meat and tongues, and ten different varieties of long cold sausages, from which one was free to cut liberal slices. The whole collection looked as if it had made numerous voyages to the North Cape, and had basked in the midnight sunbeams for several seasons.

We attempted to eat some of the smoked reindeer meat, but it was like trying to masticate an old rubber shoe, and we gave up in despair.

This collection, taking the place of the smörgasbord, constitutes the regular stand-bys at every breakfast and supper, and in addition we were served with fish, eggs, and hot meats. There is always an abundance of food, and good of its kind, but we missed the fruit and vegetables, which, with the exception of potatoes, cannot be grown in Norway except near Bergen and in a few localities in the south; and we tired of the ever-recurring salmon and fish.

The entire coast of Norway is cut up by innumerable fjords, which are long bays or arms of the sea, penetrating far inland between rocky cliffs, contracting as they advance until many of them end in narrow creeks. Extending along nearly the whole coast is a fringe of islands, forming what is called the “island belt.” The course of the steamer is between these islands and the mainland, so there is very little motion, and it is only where there is a break in this belt of islands, when the steamer crosses a wide fjord where it opens into the sea, or goes out into the open ocean, that one feels the swell and movement. As the steamers continue within this “blessed island belt” the greater part of the way to the North Cape, the voyage is mostly robbed of the miseries of sea-sickness.

The first night of the journey was Saint John’s eve. Following an ancient custom, great bonfires blazed along the coast, from eleven o’clock until after midnight. Wherever there was a small fishing settlement, little farm house, or solitary hut,—high on a neighboring rocky point the flames leaped heavenward; both forward and in the rear the coast glowed with these great spots of fire, and amid the solitude, wild scenery, and bright twilight, the effect was extremely weird. It was the evening of the longest day of the year, and although we were not yet within the region of perpetual day, yet at half-past eleven we could read fine print with ease, and the captain said it would grow no darker.

Seen from a distance, a mass of rock forming an island looks like a man’s hat floating on the water, the crown and broad rim being distinctly outlined. It is called the Torghätta (market hat), and about half way up the crown, which is eight hundred feet high, it is pierced by a natural tunnel, whose east entrance is sixty-two feet high and west end two hundred and forty-six feet high.

As you pass on the west side and are opposite the tunnel, the opening at a distance appears like a patch of snow upon the dark rock; approaching nearer you see the walls of the tunnel, with a view of the sky through the smaller opening on the east side, yet after advancing a certain distance in the steamer and looking backward, nothing is seen but a solid wall of rock, with no intimation of an opening.

There is a legend connected with the rock, that while a maiden was pursued by her lover, her brother attempted her rescue; the lover shot and pierced the brother’s hat with an arrow, and the sun shone through the opening, changing the maiden into stone. Not far away, a curiously shaped mountain is known as the Giant Maiden, to which the Norwegians doff their hats as they sail by.

What are called the Seven Sisters is a group of six mountains, the summit of one being divided into two peaks, rising precipitously three thousand feet above the water; when we passed them their summits were veiled in clouds, and the captain facetiously remarked: “They have their nightcaps on, and like most Norwegian girls are coy and afraid of showing their faces to foreigners.”

In places along the narrow fjords we saw white marks and stripes painted on the rocks, and planks painted white, floating in the water, for the purpose of deceiving the salmon, that mistake them for their favorite waterfalls, and are thus decoyed into nets.

We stop at little stations with clusters of small red houses; the natives row out to us in graceful boats with high pointed stern and prow resembling the Venetian gondolas, bringing us passengers whose belongings are contained in gaily painted and decorated oval wooden boxes, of various sizes, ranging as large as a trunk. Heavy boxes of merchandise and supplies are lowered over the steamer’s side into the larger boats, the rowers laboring hard, as we steam away, to row their heavy load to the shore. At every place we leave the mail, for the steamer has a well-regulated post-office aboard, with a postmaster and assistant, who worked night and day during the first part of the journey, but they take their ease later, as we go farther north where stations are few, and the mail has been mostly delivered.

During the second day we crossed the Arctic Circle in latitude 66° 50´. The coast of Norway presents a wonderful combination of ocean and mountain scenery. Mountains rise abruptly from the water over three thousand feet high, their summits capped with snow, and masses of snow and ice in their rugged rocky clefts; waterfalls leap a thousand feet down the sides of barren mountains, seeming in the distance but small cascades like narrow bands of silver; glaciers from the realm of eternal ice, extending for miles on elevated plateaux four thousand feet above the sea, push their crystal mass around snowy peaks and crowd their way between mountains, sweeping away immense boulders and ploughing deep into the granite walls, on their downward course to within a few hundred feet of the sea.

The steamer turns up winding fjords between straight walls of rock, with here and there a less barren aspect, where dark fir and pine trees clothe the sides, or a solitary farm house in the midst of a few acres of cultivated land gives token of civilized life. We thread an archipelago of detached masses of granite; rocky ledges rise above the crested waves; here little islands, the home of the eider duck and other sea fowl; there, great solitary islands the abode of fishermen, who have spread their nets upon the rocks and drawn their boats into sheltering coves. The way seems lost amid a maze of islands, when a turn brings us out upon the open sea, where the foaming waves dash against the rockbound coast, and sea gulls whirl around the steep cliffs. Over all is the unending daylight glorifying mountain, glacier, and sea, and with every turn the prospect changes and fresh grandeurs are disclosed.

As we advanced amid this magnificent scenery we proceeded up a narrow fjord, where the glorious sight of the Svartisen glacier burst upon our view. The Svartisen is the second largest glacier in Norway, an enormous mantle of snow and ice forty-four miles long and covering a space of sixty-two square miles, spread out upon a plateau thousands of feet high, from which protrude snowy peaks. From this plateau descend several glaciers between the mountains, and we now viewed the one which descends the nearest to the sea. The bright afternoon sun shone upon this grand glacier, which for ages has been moving slowly downward, until its glittering mass of snow and ice extends almost to the blue water. Nothing could be more beautiful than this pure-white congealed stream, as we view its course, flowing from the great ice-fields above, amid its dark framing of barren rock, down to the green slopes at the base of the mountains.

We landed in small boats upon the rocky shore and started to walk to the glacier, but the distance, which from the steamer seemed but a few rods, lengthened into over a mile. After two days of confinement upon the steamer it was a great pleasure to walk along the rocky shore, gathering shells, sea-moss, and new and strange flowers blooming upon grassy slopes just beyond the rocks. At last we stood at the base of the glacier, which towered above us more than thirty feet; great pieces of ice had been broken off and stood detached in pools of water, or were piled against each other; as far as we could see, the surface of the glacier was of pure white, in great contrast with the Swiss glaciers, so soiled and dirty from piles of stones and great moraines. As we looked down the deep crevasses penetrating into the recesses of the glacier, we found that the ice was a beautiful dark blue, rivalling in tint the bluest of skies. We climbed up the glacier a short distance, but found it too difficult and dangerous an undertaking, and were content to walk along its margin, lost in wonder before this great crystal storehouse.

In beauty and grandeur the Svartisen glacier far exceeds anything we had seen in Switzerland; even the fine glaciers about Pontresina, Zermatt, Chamonix, Grindelwald, or those that sweep around the base of the Eggishorn, are surpassed by this pure-white glacier in the far North. We were rowed back to the steamer after two hours upon land, and as we sailed away we watched until the last moment the wonderful Svartisen, which was one of the most beautiful sights of the whole trip.

As we were within the Arctic Circle we all anticipated seeing the midnight sun for the first time, and remained late upon deck, but the heavens were covered with clouds and no sun made its appearance; yet it was as light as day, and some of the passengers, while waiting for a glimpse of the sun, were writing letters at midnight.

In these high latitudes, with their combination of ocean and mountains, one must expect cloudy and rainy weather. At times mist, clouds, and rain shut out all the beautiful scenery, and it was very disappointing; yet many views we lost going north, on account of bad weather, we enjoyed on our way back.

At Bodö we left the “island belt” and crossed the wide Vest fjord, where we soon began to feel the motion of the sea, to the Lofoden Islands, grouped in a curve resembling a horn. These islands are a bewildering collection of mountains, straits and bays, while thousands of rocky islets form, as it were, a fringe to the larger islands.

The view of the Lofoden Islands as we approached across the fjord is magnificent; long lines of mountains rise directly from the sea between three and four thousand feet high, their tops ending in sharply outlined pinnacles, with patches of snow on the summits and sides, and often a cloud floating upon the highest peaks. The mountains are great masses of dark rock wholly destitute of vegetation, except a covering of green moss which is luminous especially in damp weather.

All day we cruised along the islands, calling at the little fishing hamlets to leave mail, freight, and passengers. At a small settlement called Kabelvaag, as we threaded our way among a maze of rocky reefs and islands, we got aground, and it was nearly an hour before we were floating again; the water was so clear that we could distinctly see the rocks and ledges on the bottom, until it was stirred up by the steamer in trying to get free. At Svolvaer the scenery reached its climax; the mountains rose almost straight out of the water, their rugged walls of rock seamed and chiseled by nature into weird forms, with scarcely room at their base for the little collection of fishers’ huts and fish-packing houses, dwarfing everything by comparison with their lofty summits, thousands of feet high.

The Lofoden Islands are famous for their fisheries, as well as for their imposing scenery. From the middle of January until the middle of April millions of cod come to spawn off the east coast of the islands, and are caught with net and line by the twenty-five thousand fishermen, who flock there from all parts of Norway. The average annual yield is estimated to be twenty millions of fish, and some years as many as twenty-nine millions have been taken. Nearly six thousand boats congregate at the three principal fishing banks, a mile from the islands, for the winter fishing, which is often attended with great loss of life, when a gale prevents the boats from returning to the islands and drives them across the wide and stormy fjord, capsizing them before they reach the mainland.

The fish are nicely cleaned, split, and hung upon long wooden racks to dry, and others are slightly salted, carried to the mainland, where the atmosphere is less damp, and spread upon the rocks. They are shipped all over Europe, a great quantity being sent to Spain and Portugal. The vessels bring back Spanish and Portuguese wines on their return voyage at very cheap rates, and as a result you can buy port and sherry wines cheaper in Norway than in any other country in Europe, except where the wines are made.

Upon several of the islands factories have been erected, and the cods’ heads, which are first dried on the rocks, are pulverized and converted into fertilizers; at many places we saw great stacks and piles of fish drying on the rocks, and heaps of cods’ heads awaiting transportation to the factory, whose proximity was made known by the penetrating odor, sufficiently strong to travel to the North Pole.

The Lofoden Islands are also the seat of the great cod liver oil industry, and the choicest brands of this life-renewing cordial are sent on their errands of mercy, broadcast over the world.

The steamer bears us amid new and striking views of the grand scenery of the islands and also of the mainland, where across the fjord, which grows narrower as we go northward, long ranges of snow mountains in ever-changing forms rise from the water, and we are within a circle of giant peaks of savage and stupendous grandeur.

Many consider this the grandest scenery of the whole Norwegian coast, and affirm that nothing in Europe surpasses it.

Small local steamers make the circuit of the Lofoden Islands, calling at all the little hamlets; but to fully enjoy the journey one should be a good sailor, for along the west side of the islands one is exposed to the full sweep of the waves of the Atlantic.

To the south of the islands is the celebrated Malström, a cataract formed by the tide pouring through a narrow strait, where the water foams and seethes over deep sunken ledges, and presents an imposing scene when a contrary wind strikes the angry billows.

As we steamed along a fjord in the midst of superb scenery, we remained on deck watching again for a view of the midnight sun. The sun was behind a high mass of rock jutting out into the fjord; across the water the snow mountains glistened and glowed in the sunlight, and the water sparkled beneath the midnight sunbeams. It was half an hour before we passed the rocky hill hiding the sun’s disk, and when we arrived at the point where we should have seen it, the sun was obscured by clouds. The stilly hour of midnight was as light as day, and even without bright sunshine the effect was indescribably lovely, as the mountains, islands, and sea were bathed in the mellow light.

In the far North, millions of sea gulls whirl around their rocky eyries, and circling over the steamer dart downward to skim over the water, bearing away a fish as their prey; wild ducks and sea fowl of various kinds fly through the air, and the greyish-brown eider ducks are seen on the reefs and rocky islets.

There is a law prohibiting the shooting of the eider ducks, from which a large revenue is obtained. The ducks congregate on the little islands, where they build their nests, lining them with the soft fluffy feathers which they pluck from the breast. The natives visit the islands gathering the feathers from the nests, which the birds proceed to reline, thus furnishing the eider down of commerce, that is so extremely light and warm, and is used so extensively for the filling of quilts, pillows, and the small square feather beds under which the Germans especially delight to sleep. The finest of the feathers are made into wraps and garments that are marvels of lightness and warmth.

We had some eider ducks’ eggs boiled for breakfast; they were four inches long, with a beautiful bluish-green shell, but their taste was too strong to be palatable.

Among the cabin passengers was a young Englishman, who stammered so badly that at times he was wholly unintelligible. He could speak but a few words of Norwegian, yet he left the steamer at a little out-of-the-way place intending to go into the interior to fish for salmon, being very confident that with the aid of his phrase book he could make himself understood.

As he would stand, apparently for several minutes, helplessly struggling with his l’s before he could say l-l-l-l-l-l-lax, we wondered if the short Norwegian summer would be long enough for him to pronounce such simple little words as gjæstgiveri, bekvemmeligheder, or gjennomgangsbilletter, and others of like length, that go to make up a Norwegian conversation, and which it would seem to require the nimblest of tongues to glide over.

What his fate was we never learned, but perhaps the unfortunate stutterer fell a victim to his own temerity, choked by the first mouthful of Norwegian consonants, and lies buried beneath a lofty pyramid of cods’ heads.

Suddenly, on a quiet afternoon, all was excitement on the steamer’s deck, as we gathered to watch a large herd of reindeer swimming in a long line across the fjord. Laplanders in rude boats were following them, shouting and urging them on; the reindeer uttered shrill cries, resembling the yelping of a dog, swimming in the water with little but the heads and branching antlers visible, until the leader reached the opposite shore, and, the others following, they gathered on the rocks and scattered over a grassy slope, till the Lapps had driven the last from the water.

The Lapps were driving them to fresh pastures, and the captain told us we were very fortunate to have seen them, for it is a sight seldom witnessed, as a calm and still day must be chosen, when the water is smooth, with as little current as possible, and they also endeavor to select a time when no steamer is liable to pass.

We came upon them just as the rear of the line was in the middle of the fjord; the steamer turned to one side, affording us a good view of the interesting sight, and passed without frightening the reindeer.

Our voyage northward from Throndhjem had been in the province called the Nordland, but soon after passing the Lofoden Islands we entered Finmarken, the most northern province of Norway, and advanced through a series of magnificent fjords to Tromsö.

FROM TROMSÖ TO THE
NORTH CAPE.

CHAPTER VI.
FROM TROMSÖ TO THE NORTH CAPE.

The Sights of Tromsö—A Visit To a Whale-Oil Factory—The Most Northern Town in the World—Bird Islands in the Arctic Ocean—A Picnic at the Base of the North Cape—The Midnight Sun—Perplexities of Perpetual Day.

Tromsö, the chief town in Finmarken, numbers fifty-five hundred inhabitants; it is situated upon an island with a background of snow mountains across the gleaming fjord. Above the town, a number of pleasant villas and wooden houses extend along the heights, one of which was pointed out by a Norwegian passenger as his home. This gentleman during the journey had conversed with equal fluency in Norwegian, English, French, and German. The Norwegians are good linguists, and it is surprising to find so many who speak such excellent English.

The harbor is a busy place, full of vessels of many nationalities, among which were those bearing the flags of Russia, Germany, and France. They bring merchandise of various kinds and take back cargoes of fish, train oil, and furs. Many small boats came out to meet the steamer and we were rowed ashore at the fixed charge of three cents each.

It was after ten o’clock in the evening, but the streets were full of people and the stores all open. The first mate hunted up the custodian of the museum, and we had the novel experience of viewing its collections, thus late in the evening, by the bright light of perpetual day. There were fish, birds, mammals, and minerals peculiar to Norway, costumed figures illustrating Norwegian and Lapp life, together with an array of wood carvings, ancient ornaments, and old furniture. But more interesting than the figures of the Lapps in the museum were the live Lapps in the streets, who live in Tromsö, and appear a little more civilized than those in the neighboring encampment. They are short in stature, oily and dirty as to looks, clothed in a loose garment belted at the waist, some being made of coarse cloth, others of reindeer skin worn with the hair turned inward. On the head were brightly colored caps, their legs were encased in reindeer leggings, and they wore moccasins of reindeer skin ending in pointed toes.

They gathered around us laden with rude articles of their own manufacture, for sale, consisting of small spoons made from reindeer horn, knives like daggers in reindeer-horn cases, and caps and shoes such as they themselves wore. They spoke Norwegian, and we made them understand by signs and the few words at our command that we would give the half of their asking price, which in time they were glad to accept.

The shops were full of interesting photographs and curiosities; the largest stores contained rich furs, fine wolf and bear skins, and handsome cloaks made from eider down.

Tromsö has several hotels, schools, churches, a bank, telegraph office, and its wide streets are lined with comfortable houses mostly built of wood: altogether it impressed us as an active and thriving place. We were followed by a throng of Lapps to the wharf, who offered us great bargains as we stepped into small boats and were rowed out to the steamer.

As we left Tromsö, at about twelve o’clock, the subdued light of the midnight sun, veiled by a fleecy cloud, shone upon the long range of snow-clad mountains across the fjord; the magnificent sight chained us in rapturous contemplation, and we remained on deck until the glistening mountains vanished from view.

In the quiet midnight hour, when all nature is awake, when bright daylight illumines imposing views of mountains and sea, one loses all thought of sleep, and it is a struggle to leave the enchanted scene for your state-room, and, shutting out the light with thick curtains, seek needed rest and sleep.

The next morning we were called before six o’clock, and in small boats were rowed to an island to visit a whale-oil factory. We rowed in and out among seven whales, several of them fifty feet long, floating like great hulks in the water; two whales had been cut up and their blood had colored the water for quite a distance; so as we pulled for the landing we seemed to advance through a sea of blood.

On a great platform, surrounded by deep pools of blood, lay two immense leviathans of the deep; the skin and thick layers of flesh had been stripped from them and lay about in oozing piles; men, their clothing from head to feet reeking with gore, chopped and slashed away like demons inside the great carcasses, which seemed like bloody wrecks; the crash and noise of the machinery used in moving and denuding the monsters was deafening; it was a carnival of blood and slaughter, and we grew sick and faint at the sight. Picking our way amid the pools of blood and piles of flesh, we went into the oil factory, where the great rolls of blubber and flesh are cut by machinery into pieces, and then placed in boilers; much of the flesh looked clean and white like thick strips of very fat pork. By steam the contents of the boilers are tried, until all the oil contained in the blubber and flesh has run through pipes into large tanks. Some whales will produce sixty barrels of refined oil.

The best of the flesh is canned and placed on the market bearing French labels; some is cured and smoked, and other choice bits are made into sausages.

The residue in the boilers, after the oil has run off, is dried and ground into a feed for fattening cattle, who eat it readily; it has the color and appearance of ground coffee. The bones are made into fertilizers, and it will thus be seen that, when a whale has passed through this factory, nearly every part has been utilized. We took as a souvenir a whale’s inner ear, a bony structure somewhat resembling in shape a snail’s shell nearly closed, six inches long.

We saw the inside arrangement of a whale’s mouth. On each side of the upper jaw are long thin plates of whalebone set close together like the teeth of a comb, and fringed at the edges with a substance resembling thread. These plates, which furnish the whalebone of commerce, extend along the jaw from six to twelve feet, according to the size of the whale, their use being to retain the great assortment constituting the whale’s food. A whale opens his capacious jaws, taking in a mouthful of water, fish, and many forms of sea life; the water is forced out between the whalebone plates, which keep back the solids, and down goes the living collection à la Jonah, without chewing, into the whale’s big belly.

The harpoon, with which the whales are killed, is a stout iron rod or spear five feet long, with an iron ring at one end; it is shot from a cannon on the ship, which sometimes approaches within forty feet of the whale. When it enters, an immense cartridge explodes, killing the whale, and lifting four arms near the point of the harpoon which fasten into the whale, and it is towed ashore by ropes attached to the harpoon’s ring. From April till August, a great many whales are killed off the north coast of Norway, which are attracted by the schools of fish swarming there at that season.

It is perhaps needless to say that though the visit to this whale factory was intensely interesting, it was also extremely disagreeable. The smell of the boiling blubber, the great tanks of oil, and the heaps of fertilizers, is beyond description. It was only by holding our noses and stuffing handkerchiefs into our mouths that we were able to complete the tour of inspection. We returned to the steamer unable to eat any breakfast, though we had taken but a roll and cup of coffee on leaving, and several of the ladies ended by being sea-sick. The terrible odor clung to our clothes even after we had spread them on deck in the fresh air; the trophies of whalebone and whale’s ears which we brought back to the steamer converted the air of our state-rooms into miniature whale factories, and for the remainder of the voyage it was only necessary to say “whales,” to send a look of disgust over every countenance.

Hammerfest, the most northern town in the world, is situated in latitude 70° 40´, and contains twenty-one hundred inhabitants.

The wooden houses comprising the town are mostly built upon a small promontory jutting into the sea, back of which rises abruptly a high hill whence have fallen avalanches of rock, altogether too near the houses, one would judge, for the peace of mind of their occupants. In fact, the hills and boulders have left little room for the town that extends along the shores of the bay, where are situated numerous fish houses, and long wooden frames on which are hung fish to dry, with occasional figures, dressed like scarecrows in a New England cornfield, perched among the fish to frighten away the sea fowl and prevent their devouring it. A few little stone huts with turf roofs are the abode of some half-civilized Lapps; there are shops for the sale of Lapp costumes, furs, walrus tusks, and quaint Norwegian boxes; the windows of many of the houses were bright with flowers and potted plants; we heard the notes of a piano; and even here, at the north end of the world, the people seemed to have many of the comforts and enjoyments of civilized life.

The harbor was full of steamers and sailing vessels loading with fish and oil, and the pungent odor of cod liver oil and of the fish drying along the shores pervaded the place.

Out upon the north promontory a granite column has been erected to commemorate the measurement of the number of degrees between Ismail, at the mouth of the Danube, and this point, by the geometers of three nations, under order of Oscar I. and the Czars Alexander I. and Nicholas. Seaward is a continuous line of snowy mountains rising one above the other, and thickly dotting the bay are islands and rocky reefs.

We remained but a few hours at Hammerfest, and then continued on our way to the North Cape, a journey of about four hours. On reaching the island of Hjelmsö, with high barren cliffs rising straight from the water, the steamer stops, the shrill whistle is blown, and two small cannon on the steamer’s prow are fired. Immediately thousands of sea fowl, the sole occupants of the island, fly from the cliffs uttering shrill cries; the air is filled with them as they circle wildly around until they return to the cliffs, filling every crevice and space on the rocks, the gulls looking like white dots on the black surface.

When all is quiet the cannon are fired again, and the birds rise in a cloud, filling the air like so many great snow flakes, flying around the ship uttering plaintive cries, then settling back to their rocky home. Four times was the whistle blown and the cannon fired, and as the echoes died away we heard the whirr of thousands of wings cleaving the air, and watched the wild fright and disorder of the great collection of sea fowl; then leaving them in peace we steamed out upon the Arctic Ocean.

The long sweeping waves pitched our good ship about, yet we kept onward amid desolate scenery, till rising before us we saw the huge form of the North Cape—the goal of our long journey. This great mass of rock, its seamed and furrowed sides destitute of vegetation, rising almost perpendicularly nearly one thousand feet above the dark water, is an imposing sight, and the impression is one never to be forgotten.

The captain intended to anchor and we were all to fish for codfish, which he described as exciting sport, as the fish are large and abundant, and at times they are pulled in so rapidly that the deck is covered with them; but though the lines were set, the pitching motion began to affect many of the passengers so severely that we decided to abandon the fishing, and to run into a little bay formed between two projections of the Cape, and to land. The small boats were lowered, and it was an exciting scene as we descended the steps at the steamer’s side, stepped into the pitching boats, and were rowed landward, the great waves bearing us in upon the shore among the rocks and dashing surf.

What was our surprise to find at the base of the North Cape, extending from the border of rocks along the shore, a narrow grassy slope, where were growing beautiful violets, forget-me-nots, buttercups, and many flowers we had never seen before. It was six o’clock in the afternoon, the weather was the finest of any time during the whole voyage, the sun shone from a cloudless sky, and we marvelled to find it so warm that overcoats and wraps were uncomfortable. The stewards brought dishes and food from the steamer, and sitting upon the grass, with the waves dashing upon the rocks at our feet, we enjoyed a delightful picnic supper. We gathered flowers, searched for pebbles, peculiar-shaped stones, or anything of interest cast up by the sea, and at nine o’clock began the steep climb to the summit. The only building at the North Cape is a little hut, in which a man lives in summer during the tourist season, who has a supply of wine, mostly champagne, which he carries to the summit and sells to visitors to celebrate their view of the midnight sun, or to console them in their disappointment at not seeing it. Letters have been received from foreign countries directed Poste Restante, North Cape, but their delivery was about as impossible as if directed Post Office, North Pole.

A rough and narrow path ascends the side of the Cape in steep zigzags, at the sides of which are long ropes, attached at the ends to the rock, which are a great assistance in pulling yourself up; great banks of snow lay beside the path as we ascended; and in places steps had been cut in the steep rock. As we rested on our upward way, extended views of the ocean were spread out before us, in which the only sign of life was our steamer in the bay far below, dwarfed into diminutive proportions.

The summit of the North Cape is a long, level, barren plateau, across which we walked to a granite column at the north end, erected to commemorate the visit of Oscar II. in 1882. A wire, attached to low posts, marks the way; it is a necessary precaution, as people are often overtaken by thick mists and fogs, who would wander completely bewildered, and perhaps fall down the precipitous sides, without this guiding wire.

At last we stood at one end of the world, for the North Cape, in latitude 71° 10´, is the most northern point of Europe, and going to the edge of the steep cliff and looking downward we saw the waves breaking at its base, a thousand feet below. It was eleven o’clock in the evening on the 28th of June; the sun was behind a cloud, but its rays fell upon the water, and the mountains glowed in the subdued light. The ocean lay at our feet calm and almost motionless; southward extended long lines of barren mountains, until their dim outlines blended with the distant horizon; northward the unbroken expanse of the unknown Arctic Ocean stretched toward the unexplored polar regions. Only to a little over a dozen degrees of latitude north of this point has man penetrated, for Lieut. Lockwood, in latitude 83° 24´, attained the highest point reached, which is four hundred and fifty-six miles from the north pole, and eight hundred and fifty-four miles nearer the pole than the North Cape is. Yet how great has been the cost of these polar expeditions! How many victims have perished in the frozen North, or escaped from its clutches ruined in health!

Not a ship, not a sail, could we see; not a sign of vegetation save a few lichens and short moss clothed the barren rocks; not a sound nor indication of life save the cry of the sea-gull, as it circled round its rocky home, broke the eternal silence. It was a sublime sight, but oh how desolate! Never before did the world and all it contained seem so far removed, as when we looked out upon this silent, dreary, and lifeless scene.

A gentle breeze came up from the ocean, the air was neither cold nor penetrating, as we sat upon the rocks awaiting the hour of midnight. The clouds were ever changing; soon after twelve o’clock they parted, and for a few minutes we gazed upon the full disk of the midnight sun. Never can we forget that sight! The sun was high above the horizon, less glaring and brilliant than by day, its mellow light flooding ocean and mountain.

It seemed to have paused in its course, and a slight glow betokened the mingling of sunset and sunrise, and marked the dawn of another day. We stood spell-bound, enchanted by the magic scene, until a cloud covered the sun and the mist crept up from the sea; then relinquishing all hopes of another view of the sun, we started across the desolate plain and began our descent.

The steamer’s whistle blew, the loud and oft-repeated echoes reverberated from the rocky walls of the little bay, the descent was quickly accomplished, we were rowed out to the steamer, and soon started on our journey south.

As we stood on deck for a last sight of the North Cape, the sun came forth and shone as brightly as at midday—high in the heavens. It was then half-past one in the morning, but it was difficult to realize, except from the position of the sun, that it was not one o’clock in the afternoon.

We retired to our state-rooms with thankful hearts for the glorious sight we had seen, and that we had not been disappointed in this, the crowning experience of our travels in the North. Often the weather is so bad that even the outlines of the North Cape cannot be distinguished, and travellers return to Hammerfest to wait for another steamer and make the journey a second time, perhaps to be greeted with fog and mist. The captain said that during his previous trip there was such a succession of rainy and miserable weather, they did not see the sun once during the entire trip of eleven days, and several tourists were so disgusted that they vowed the midnight sun was a grand humbug, and doubted if in the North there was even a sun at midday. It is a very rare occurrence when it is perfectly clear at the North Cape. If one could remain there twenty-four hours under a cloudless sky, he would see the sun go round in a circle; at midnight it would appear to almost stop, as it moved slowly along on a line with the horizon, and then would begin to gradually ascend.

The whole disk of the sun at midnight (in pleasant weather) can be seen from the

• North Cape from May 13 till July 30,
• Hammerfest “  “ 16 “ “  27,
• Tromsö    “  “ 20 “ “  22.

After the longest days it descends every day nearer the horizon, until it disappears below, at first only for a few hours; but the days grow shorter, until the season of constant night comes on, as an offset to that of perpetual day. The sun is not seen at the

• North Cape from Nov. 18 to Jan. 24,
• Hammerfest “  “ 21 “ “  21,
• Tromsö    “  “ 25 “ “  17.

The interesting phenomenon of the midnight sun is due to the fact that the two revolutions of the earth, one on its axis, the other around the sun, are in different planes, the equator and the ecliptic making an angle with each other. Thus during a certain season the north pole is inclined towards the sun, so that all parts of the polar circle are constantly beneath the sun’s rays, while the south pole is turned as far as possible into the shade; as the earth continues in its course around the sun the south pole comes within the circle of perpetual illumination, and the north polar circle, for an equal period, is in darkness.

During the period of darkness, Hammerfest has no regular steamer communication with the outer world, for in winter the mail steamers do not go beyond Tromsö, a month being allowed for the round trip from Throndhjem. The first of the voyage there are a few hours of daylight, and as they advance northward the moon and the brilliant aurora borealis at times furnish light, but often the steamer can run but a few hours, and anchors until there is light, as the coast is so dangerous, and navigation so intricate, that it is impossible to run by the compass. How dreary and tedious must it be through the dark winter, and with what delight must the inhabitants of these Northern regions hail the first appearance of the sun!

Certainly the days of perpetual daylight are most confusing to one who has been accustomed to a division of the twenty-four hours into day and night.

During the entire voyage we never saw a lighted candle nor lamp; all hours of the night and day were the same for every practical purpose; at midnight we have written letters, and read on deck, and often at night, after having tried in vain to get to sleep, I have sat up in my berth, and read in the bright daylight, until from mere exhaustion I would fall asleep.

It was almost impossible to tell whether it was eight o’clock in the morning, or eight o’clock in the evening, and the early risers were sometimes in doubt as to whether they were eating their supper or breakfast; my state-room mate and myself never got mixed on the latter, as we were always soundly sleeping in our berths when the last bell rang; for if the midnight sunbeams had a wakeful effect, the morning sunbeams were the same as in other parts of the world, where the breakfast bell always rings too early.

Added to our perplexity in distinguishing day from night was the constant change of time, for as we sailed toward the North Cape we were continually going eastward. Tromsö is on about the same degree of longitude as Stockholm, and Hammerfest is farther east than Riga in Russia. We started with Throndhjem time, but in the far North we travelled east so rapidly in the contracted degrees of longitude, that no one was ever sure of the time except once a day, when the clock was set. One day at the dinner table fifteen watches were consulted, and each one denoted a different time. I did not change my watch, but kept it at Throndhjem time, and daily made my calculations to arrive at local time.