Birkheda Vicarage; the story of a woman's influence. From the Swedish of J. A, author of 'The Stark Family' [i.e. J. C. A. von Hofsten], etc

Preface

. IHOUGH Sweden and the sister provinces of Scandinavia are now well known to English travellers, general readers are not greatly conversant either with the nature of those countries or the manners of their inhabitants. Those, we think, who have read the graphic pictures of "An Old Bushman," entitled Ten Years in Siveden, will not be likely to rest satisfied with the knowledge he has given them, and will probably seek for further information regarding the homes of the ancient Vikings. Descriptive sketches of travel, however, are not always to be relied on as pictures of that home life which must ever be most interesting and important in studying the characteristics of a people; and hence it is to their own literature we must look for true delinea tions of their social and domestic life, — must be admitted in fact by their own writers within the veil that is drawn (proverbially only) around their family circle.

Little need be said, therefore, by way of apology for presenting the present translation to English readers. The original has been favourably criticised, and has grown widely popular as a pleasant picture of Swedish country life — a virtually pastoral sketch. Its style may not be VI

PREFACE.

. everything that an English reader anticipates in such a book, but the translator has been more studious even to preserve its little failings than to run the risk of des troying, by any attempt at fancied improvement, that simplicity which is so natural to those children of the north whom it pourtrays, and who received — a generation ago, perhaps, more than now — their chief teachings from the book of Nature, and from the honoured pastor of their village church. The habits of country people in every land are antiquated, and simple, and often super stitious ; placing in traditional lore a kind of semi-religious faith that tends to retard the development of those broader spiritual truths of a religion that enlarges the heart ; but even while wealthy in traditional lore, and notably attached to old-fashioned fancies, the people of Scandinavia are generally remarkable for their earnest adoption of the Lutheran faith, and for their observance of its ordinances.

It is into some of these teachings this little book leads us, and if the reader of this translation become as in terested in it as we ourselves have been in its original, our work will not have been in vain. The only freedom taken in this translation is the alteration of the name "Bjorkheda" into its closest English equivalent, "Birkheda," an alteration made for the benefit both of English ears and tongues, — the latter not being the most flexible (linguistically speaking) in the world. TRANSLATOR. CONTENTS.

Chapter I. Dream And Reality

AN idyllic stillness reigned over Birkheda Vicarage, and there, in that peaceable retreat, surrounded by upright, open-hearted people, I was to wile away some weeks, after a period of straining toil and much mental conflict. With what thankfulness did I receive the invitation, and set out from our metropolis, whose close atmosphere and many bitter experiences weighed upon me both in body and in mind. Nothing could be more hearty than the reception I met with, both from the worthy vicar Sellner and his friendly little wife. I was indeed in a manner a stranger to them, though I had been carried to bap tism in her arms, when I was by him admitted into the Christian community. My parents had lived in the neighbourhood of Birkheda, and had there main tained their best and most intimate connection for B many years; but in my earliest childhood this connection had ceased.

My father's industry had carried us far away, and the little vicarage would soon have been altogether blotted from my memory, had not my mother's narratives fixed it in my mind, as pictures of a sanctuary where trouble and conflict had never come. All communication had not, however, ceased between our families. The interchange of letters was not indeed frequent, but it was ahvays full of interest; and when the old friends learned that I was in Stockholm, it induced them to send the invitation I have mentioned, from which I expected both profit and pleasure. I had only been there a few hours, when I felt myself quite at home. My mother's description came to my mind in all its truth. Here the storm of life could not come near me. The "peace of God" seemed to rest upon the red-coloured vicarage, with its old-fashioned garden, its fragrant sorrel edgings, and blossoming fruit-trees; as well as upon the little white church which stood before my window, sur rounded by the silent resting-places of the dead.

I can never look with indifference upon a churchyard. Even when a child it gave me pleasure to wander among monuments, and more than once have I foregone my parents' and brothers' company at the meal furnished by the well-stored basket in the vicinity of the old church of Birkheda, while the horses grazed beneath the shadow of the lime-trees surrounding the churchyard. It was therefore a dear sight to me DREAM AND REALITY. 3 to be able to overlook the kingdom of the dead, from the window of the comfortable little room I was to occupy. I stood long at the open window, after having said good night to my friendly hostess, contemplating with curious admiration the scattered monuments. Some were ancient, venerable stone slabs, on which I seemed to see "well-born lords and noble ladies," coupled with inscriptions bearing witness of an earnest fear of God, mingled with boasting vanity — faithful Bible sayings and long titles.

In one corner of the churchyard, within a mournful iron grating, as much as possible separated from the crowd, a proud-looking marble column reared its aristocratic form, cold and desolate. No flower adorned its base, and the fine white sand which covered the little enclosure looked like a desert in miniature. With some delight I turned my gaze from this silent splendour to the green-clad grave-mounds, which, with their mournful, if not always tasteful, groups of flowers, (fiery yellow lilies and larkspurs seemed to be the flowers of youth,) gave witness to a dear remembrance of the dead. Some graves were also to be seen trodden over, covered with nettles and weeds — sorrowful examples of forgetfulness and indifference. I fell into deep reflection on life and death — flowers and weeds. I was roused from these reveries by the sound of the shutters, that were being screwed before all the windows in the lower storey.

How superfluous, and indeed almost droll did this suspicious caution appear to me. I was glad that my room was freed from such an uncomfortable luxury; for in that case I could not have looked out upon the Temple of Peace. There was not much consequence to be attached to my blind confidence in the world here surrounding me, nor in the reflections from which I was disturbed, — my thoughts about the nettles and weeds, which received their nourishment from the mouldering hearts reposing beneath them, and which in so life-like a manner showed to me how sin shoots forth and thrives in the self-complacent human heart; but I ■was young, and more accustomed to reflection than to life. The light summer night seemed to me much too beautiful to be shut out. A slight fog began to rise, and warned me to close the window; but I left the curtains up, so that I had light enough to unpack my portmanteau, and arrange my luggage in the little three-cornered wardrobe and the spacious old-fashioned clothes-chest, with its swelling figures and polished brass ornaments.

As a distinction, rather than as a fellow to the ponderous-looking clothes-chest, stood an ancient, once gilded table, with grey marble slab, whose dilapidated corners and feeble lustre gave it a sorrowful appearance of pauvre honteaux. This table had now to do service both as dressing table and library; for I must acknowledge my weakness for taking more books •with me on my travels than I can possibly read. DBEAM AND BEALITY. 5 I feel as if I were at an inn, or in a wearisome town-hall, if I see no books around me. My arrangement and attempt to give my room as homely an aspect as possible had occupied me rather a long time. It was past twelve o'clock when I was ready to lay me down. Still once more would I look out over the churchyard. I approached the window, but stepped hastily back again.

A tall dark figure glided cautiously over the churchyard wall. I felt timid, but speedily laughed away my childish fear. What wonder that a poor mourner wished to pay a visit to the grave of a beloved one in the stillness of such a summer's night? It must certainly be a widower, or a father, or a son going to pray by his mother's grave. Hid behind the curtain, I observed him awhile. He went slowly on, as still and cautiously as if he feared to disturb the tranquillity of the dead. Directly opposite my window, I had noticed a simple white cross; by this he stopped and raised his head, as if his gaze lifted itself above the earth, and wished to follow the beloved one beyond the bounds of time. Thus I interpreted his thoughts, and felt myself altogether sinful, as from my hiding-place I witnessed a sorrow that appeared so deep and shy, that it would withdraw from every curious eye.

Yes ! mayest thou be undisturbed ; mayest thou feel that the strength of death is broken, thought I; and I prepared to go to rest. I confess that my evening prayer was disturbed by thoughts about this mysterious churchyard visitor, and, moved by a feminine curiosity, I determined early the next morning to take a walk in the churchyard, and to read the inscription on that white cross. In my fancy I had already come to the conclusion that I should there read the name of some young beloved spouse, who had quite recently been snatched away from a happy home. I fell asleep, and my dreams carried me back again to the occurrences of the previous day. I was again bid welcome by my host and hostess, saw Stockholm disappearing before my eyes, and was borne anew by Malaren's billows through leaf-clad islands and by green-banked shores, when suddenly the steamboat struck upon a sunken rock.

I heard a creaking, grating noise. Terrified and confused, I aw7oke. What had happened ? Where was I ? Not in danger of suffering shipwreck on Lake Malaren ; but that danger of another nature threatened me, I saw quickly with frightful clearness. The noise that had waked me belonged to no dream, but to reality. I still distinctly heard a scraping against the wall by my window: it was a ladder which was being reared up. The romantic figure in the churchyard came suddenly to my remembrance, and I discovered all the foolishness of my rambling fancies. When I believed he was raising his eyes to heaven, he was probably calculating the possibility of reaching my window, with the old ladder I had seen laid aside among the nettles by the churchyard wall, in company with two others of greater dimensions.

DBEAM AND REALITY. 7 Motionless with fear, I listened; but it seemed as if the violent beating of my heart would drown every other sound. But it was not so. I heard that the ladder had got a resting-place; for a slow and cautious ascent began. The distance from my window to the ground was not great, for the vicarage was an ancient low building, whose foundations, if there were any such to be found, were sunk so deeply in the earth, that on the parlour floor one found oneself on a perfect level with the garden-walk without. A dark object now intercepted the feeble light from entering in. A shaking of the window-frame followed, and then some pieces of glass fell on the floor. The sound seemed, like an electric shock, to wake me to recollection. I started up to fly. Trembling and paralyzed with fright, I vainly attempted to move from the place.

There I stood, in the middle of the floor, face to face with my dangerous guest. I expected to be struck to the floor w7ith one blow, and believed that my last hour was come; when, — what do I see? — he draws back, a half terrified cry escaped him, and he appeared equally as affrighted at the sight of me, as I at the sight of him. I was taking advantage of his astonishment to reach the door; but in 'my hurry I struck against a chair. This alarm seemed to dispel the fear I had occasioned him. He drew a deep breath, and muttered, "Oh, nothing more than human!" and at the same moment he had, with cat-like stealthiness and silence, placed himself between me and the door. "Hush! if you value your life," he whispered, and inclined himself so near to me that I noticed his brandy-tainted breath. As he now turned towards the light, I could in some measure distinguish his features.

He was remarkably pale, and I could not help remarking that the expression on his face bore the indication of sorrowful despair rather than of obdurate crime. I withdrew myself as far from him as possible, and leaned, trembling and silent, against the table whereon I had just arranged my books. He stretched out his hand to the door-latch to pursue his way; but when it struck him how unwise it would be to leave me, without having first disabled me from giving alarm, he changed his resolution and turned again towards me. At that moment, when my life seemed gone, my only distinct thought was to rescue my old friends. With the strength of despair I seized the table with both hands. A loud noise interrupted the uncomfortable stillness. It was fortu nate for me. The table had turned over. Its heavy marble surface lay broken on the floor, and the whole house seemed to shake to its foundations; a cry of pain announced that my enemy was hurt, perhaps dying.

I turned cold with the thought that I had unwillingly become a murderess instead of a victim. My eyes became dim, and I could neither think nor act. As if in a dream, I heard the door opened and closed below, a confused mingle of voices, and foot steps on the stairs. At length the door was opened DBEAM AND BEALITY. 9 to my room, and I saw several pale and terrified faces in the glimmering light. "What do you want? What has happened ?" Was it I who sat there upon the floor, surrounded by pieces of stone, books, and broken glass, and before me a man lying, extended and motionless? With a piercing cry I started up. I was roused to a consciousness of the uncomfortable reality; but I should speedily have fallen again, annihilated by all the violent passions of mind I had undergone, if no friendly and powerful hands had supported me.

"There, there! be still, dear child!" whispered the good lady, herself trembling with alarm while she affectionately stroked my forehead. "You must not remain here a moment longer. Maja Stina shall carry you down, and lay you on the bedroom sofa. I will follow you directly." "No, no! let me stay," I cried, sorrowfully, "I will know if he lives. Have I committed murder?" "No; don't fear that," answered the unfortunate, angrily, as he attempted to raise himself. "It is nothing more than a cursed piece of stone that has struck my leg. I have much to do yet before I die, — if it does not come untimely," he added, with a disagreeable attempt at joking, as he steadily gazed upon me with a singular expression of pity. I now willingly complied with the good lady's arrangement, and soon rested in a good bed in the best room.

The old lady busied herself kindly about me, calming and encouraging me while she smoothed the pillows and drew down the curtains. "There, my child," she said, "try to sleep now. Nothing shall disturb you here. Father is with the poor fellow, and I must now go and see what I can do for him. — You cannot remember Lisa Wiberg?" she added inquiringly. "No." "Well, well; I don't wonder at that. She was ser vant with your parents twenty or thirty years ago. Your mother will remember her well; she dressed her when a bride. Your parents presented the pair with Bible and silver spoons on the wedding day, and with much besides, as Lisa has many times acknowledged to me. You see, Wiberg had been coachman and Lisa housemaid with them, and they therefore got a cottage, when they married, well built and comfortable in every way; but things soon began to go wrong with them, and the same year in which your parents left here, Lisa became a widow."

"What has Lisa Wiberg to do with me at this moment?" I thought to myself, and my godmother probably observed my want of interest; for she broke off her story with a question that quickly attracted my attention. "Did you not hear that the burglar was none other than Lisa Wiberg' s son Anders, who during his earliest years grew up in your brothers' cast-off clothes, and whom Lisa in her indiscretion could never keep fine enough when DREAM AND REALITY. 11 he was little. Poor Lisa! the Lord was gracious to call her hence, so that she has not had to outlive this sorrow." "Is the mother recently dead?" I asked. His remarkable utterance, "Nothing more than human," came forcibly to my mind. Had he really in my white form believed himself looking upon a warning from the grave? "Yes; it cannot be more than seven or eight weeks ago.

Let me see, — it was the very Sunday before I counted over the things for the spring washing. She died without any previous sickness; 'crack and fall,' as the saying is. Her son came home, and found her lying dead upon the floor. She had probably had a swoon, and had fallen from cold; for the cause of death was that she had struck her head against the hearth-stone and fractured her skull." "Has her son been evil esteemed, or is this his first crime?" "Yes, it is indeed his first crime, but he has long led a sinful life; he has kept bad company, and has occasioned his mother much sorrow. We hoped her death would quicken his conscience, and so it appeared to do. For the first few days he could neither eat nor sleep, but wandered, like an unquiet spirit, about the forest that surrounds their dwelling.

He would not speak with any human being, but withdrew whenever any one sought to come near him. On the day of burial some of their neighbours had indeed prevailed upon him to follow to the church, and seldom have I seen a person more un happy than he, as he stood by the grave, pale and trembling. I could not stay my tears when I saw him, and his appearance had also made a strong im pression upon Sellner. We talked about him as we returned from church, and Sellner sent an invitation after him to come to the vicarage. Sellner wished to speak to him in private, but no Anders came; and in the evening we got the mournful intelligence that he was so intoxicated he could not move. Ever since that time he has avoided every meeting with Sellner, though on many occasions my husband has sought to speak with him.

All that we have heard is that his life has been wilder than before." A red haired girl put her head in at the door, and inter rupted the story with a salute: "The vicar begs that my lady — " "Ah! dear child, here I stand prating and prevent ing you from sleeping, and forget that father wants my help. Sleep well now! and don't trouble yourself about the broken table. It was certainly from my grandfather's house, but still I have never had per mission to have it in the parlour, on account of its gilded base, which Sellner says does not accord with our other furniture." And with a little sigh, she uttered a farewell, and went away. I could do nothing else than smile over this so abundant comfort, which alone served to lighten me regarding the irretrievable injury I had done, by sacrificing the old table, which injury had before DREAM AND REALITY. 13 seemed to me so trifling that I had not once thought about it.

Neither could I feel troubled about it now, when in this case I so perfectly approved of the Jesuitical sentence, "the end sanctifies the means." My measure was full, yea, more than full. I had only thought of saving another's life, but now I was alive myself. Besides, the poor criminal was perhaps checked in his career, for, imprisoned on a bed of sickness, he might be forced to thoughtfulness and repentance. He who had recently stood sorrowing by his mother's grave could not be a hardened scoundrel. The short summer night had fled. The window shutters had been opened at my request, the round air-holes in which appeared to me like a pair of large staring eyes, which would chase all sleep away from me. I longed for an end of this uncomfortable night, and saw with joy the morning sun's first rays glance forth through the leaves outside my window.

The birds began to wake, and proclaimed with glad voices the victory of light. I listened to their song, and peace and confidence returned to my heart. The night's dark memories fled away, and I slept, safe in the consciousness of that Providence that watches even over a sparrow's life. BIBKHEDA VICABAGE. 14

Chapter II. Old Memories And New Impressions

THE early morning walk in the churchyard, that I had determined on the previous evening, came to nothing. I did not awake before the bell reminded me that it was Sunday, and time to rise and prepare for divine service. Oh! how I love a still sabbath morning in the country! Its peaceful quietness is in such beautiful harmony with that sabbath of the soul to which the day is holy, and seems to me so clearly to contradict the assertion that the Fourth Commandment is a forced constraint of the Mosaic law, when by every thinking person it should be esteemed a great, ines timable blessing. With some such thoughts I listened to the little, well-meaning church bell, but when its last tones had died away I became again disturbed by the shadows of the night. Most troublesome of all came the thought upon me that I might easily have been a murderess, and the unhappy disturber of our peace OLD MEMORIES AND NEW IMPRESSIONS. 15 was no longer an object of my fear, but of my warmest sympathy.

"Good morning, Ruth," I heard just then from the door, which was cautiously opened by the vicar's wife. "I heard you were moving, and wished to know if I might come in." "Welcome, good godmother. It is unfortunate that I have come and dispossessed you of your own bedroom." "Oh! that is nothing, dear child. Both I and the old man have had plenty to do with Anders. When physicians are so far from anybody as from us, one becomes accustomed to practise a little quackery." "Well, how is he? Is he dangerous?" "If you mean is his life in danger, I can calmly answer, No; but he has received a severe admonition. The only thing he has spoken is a question whether the constable would come to take him; and when my husband promised that he should remain here some time, he did not even so much as thank him for it."

The judicious woman looked quite crest-fallen at this want of gratitude. To me it seemed unreason able to expect thanks from the poor fellow, who had fallen under the double burden of bodily suffering and the consciousness of crime and punishment. I was afraid of again giving way to those romantic feelings that had so recently deluded me into closing my eyes against a positive danger. I sought, there fore, to harden myself against the voice of compassion, and not to allow my fancy to give to Anders an BIRKHEDA VICARAGE. 16 interesting and touching personality, until I had other facts to fall upon than that he was a drunkard, a thief, and that he probably would have been my murderer, if God's mercy had not spared my life. "If you want any assistance, Ruth, I will send in Maja Stina," said the good lady, as she tied the strings of her Sunday cap in a neat bow.

"No, thank you. She has already brought my clothes; I have everything I want. I shall be ready in a moment." "Excuse me for leaving you; but the old gentleman is waiting for his coffee, and the second bell will soon be ringing." I made a hasty toilet, and took my breakfast; and when the ringing for assembly proclaimed that service was about to commence, Mrs. Sellner and I, sur rounded by bowing old ladies, walked into the little churchyard. The undisguised curiosity with which I was viewed, and the somewhat noisy whisperings, led me to understand that the night's adventure in the vicarage had been seized upon with such a lively interest that there was some danger in the devotion suffering by it. One person alone seemed altogether undisturbed by these distracting thoughts. This was a little, meagre old man, who met us at the churchyard gate, and greeted us with a grave bow.

He sank his chin with solemn earnestness upon his neckerchief, and prepared to accompany us to the church door, with an importance and dignity worthy of being OLD MEMORIES AND NEW IMPRESSIONS. 17 placed at the head of an army, or, at the least to act as marshal at a funeral. He was the sexton, and seemed so occupied with the dignity of his office, that I could not help wondering if in the church he ■ever had time to think of his own littleness. "Make way, good people!" he cried, spreading out his arms like a swimmer cleaving the waves. As no one stood in our way this admonition seemed so unnecessary, that, against my will, I stepped into the church with a half-subdued smile; but when the organ pealed forth one of Luther's fresh and glorious psalms the sexton's image vanished from my thoughts, and one memory of childhood followed another on my gaze in undefined, dream-like forms.

Here had I seen my father's venerable white head raise itself above the crowd; there had I sat by my mother's side on that narrow seat, vainly at tempting to find a resting-place for my feet, and clandestinely playing with her psalm-book cover. What more than all else had occupied my childish fancy at these my earliest church visits, and which had shortened for me many impatient anticipations of the "Amen," were two white-robed angels, with gilded wings, that kept watch above the pulpit, and with their luxuriant dark green palm-branches, according to my reflections, stood there warningly to remind me, and all other children, of the rod. They had thus to me been stern preachers of the Law. I looked upon them as evangelical symbols, and did there not lay in them an allegory of my life? Rly c heart was warm with these thoughts, and joined with gladness in the song of victory.

The whole service was simple and satisfying. I am not blind to, nor without a feeling for the beautiful and expressive in a large church ; but a good sermon hears better to me in a little church, where one feels oneself nearer both to the altar and the pulpit. It is as if the pastor comes into a more immediate relationship to the congregation, when, so to speak, he stands face to face with all his hearers, than when he has to exert the whole power of his lungs to carry the Word over the heads of the multi tude. At least I felt so during this quiet service, when every "thou" struck upon my heart. I felt as a little child before the old experienced teacher, but as a child without fear of the rod. The service was over. From the organ poured the liveliest strains, as if the organist would set to his music all worldly thoughts, which now again obtained full liberty.

As several females showed themselves in an expec tant attitude by the gate, and I feared to be com pelled to undergo a presentation and conversation if I accompanied the vicar's lady, I begged her to let me take a more circuitous route, that led along the low churchyard wall into the vicarage garden. With out any signs of displeasure she nodded assent. She had really wished to introduce me to her neighbours and friends, but would not put any restraint upon my liberty. I had no desire to satisfy their curiosity; but I had not proceeded OLD MEMOBIES AND NEW IMPRESSIONS. 19 many paces before I felt a strong desire to satisfy my own. My way led me past the stately monument that had on the previous evening attracted my atten tion, rather than awakened my interest. Now a lengthy inscription glittered with golden splendour in the sunshine, and I felt compelled to see whether it contained anything that could compensate for the want of flowers and verdure.

It read: — "Here rests" — I will not venture to enumerate all the court titles, orders, and distinctions that went before his lofty name, — "The high and nobly born Count Philippe Auguste de Borree; born 1785, died 1848." Not a word of hope or comfort, not even any poetical phrases on death or sleep. How poor in all its splendour! There was nothing that could soften the stiff, cold impression of this aristocratic grave. I continued my way; but dark, uncertain recollections occurred to me that in my childhood I had seen an erect, stately, star-decorated count of that name. Had I not been at his house? A stately mansion rose up in my memory, a long avenue of poplars, a stone-paved courtyard, a wide staircase, two long rows of windows, and a turreted roof! All these I had once seen, and it must have been in connection with the name of Borree.