A summer in Scandinavia

Chapter I. To The North

This time we had crossed the Atlantic under a vow — that we go Northward, and find out for ourselves what were the charms of higher latitudes, and had we not already found them in the beautiful free town of Hamburg? We knew this was an important pbrt — another Liverpool — but were surprised to find so large a town, although the two miles’ drive from the railway-station through ugly streets to Hotel de l’Europe was unattractive in the extreme. This hotel overlooks the beautiful waters of the Alster River, which runs through the city by a number of arms, but widens at its entrance into a basin nearly a mile square, three sides of which are surrounded by fine, solid buildings, representing different classes of industry — the theatres, public buildings, and the fine hotels— all of

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which having been built since the great fire, are equipped with modern conveniences and full of comforts.

As evening comes this basin of water is covered with the most fascinating boats of all sizes and descriptions, — gay with many colors — which fly over the smooth surface and disappear through the arches of a handsome bridge, the dividing line between the inner and outer Alster. But few surprises could be more agreeable to the tourist, worn with the fatigues of a long journey through the desolate country from Holland to this port, than the first view of this fairy scene on a summer evening. The pure air ; the lingering twilight ; the coming and going of pleasure-seekers ; the graceful sails ; the brilliant colors, with the full tones of a fine German orchestra, are indeed a welcome.

Hamburg has a proud bearing even at a casual glance, a conviction of strength and power. In walks and drives about the town we catch not a glimpse of the great commerce of wdiich she is the proud mistress of all the continental cities ; but the fact of wealth, independence, and luxury is not for a moment questionable from any point of survey one chooses to make. Of handsome boulevards

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there seemed no end — our city guide said there were twenty-four — but where they began or ended was daily an unsolved mystery, and to see them all an impossibility. Everywhere we were surprised with fresh revelations of architecture, borrowed from many lands, with extensive grounds, now radiant in their fine splendor of handsome shade trees, creeping vines, flowering shrubs, and those rare plants generally found in the southern clime.

This beautiful picture is not the all of Hamburg. There is another side which is, indeed, a contrast ; and a walk from the modern to the old town is to step across ages. If there was a luxuriant past, there are no records to be found at the present. Probably no city of Europe, with much less wealth and importance even, has so poor a display of art in any of its departments of architecture, painting, or sculpture ; in fact, save one beautiful monument in bronze commemorative of the Franco-Prussian war, there was nothing that repaid a visit.

One reads the story of what Hamburg is and must be, in the ample harbor, with its four or five miles of quays, ninety miles from the mouth of the Elbe. It is a marvel of shipping, proudly asserting its importance by flags and masts from every zone. These ships are moored to clusters of wooden

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posts, planted in regular rows, whereby parallel roads are formed through the harbor, giving it not only a picturesque appearance, but the feeling that all the nations of the earth are kin. Leaving the commercial part of the Elbe, the road winds around ascending banks, crowned with palatial homes, various gardens with summer attractions the Germans love so well, and views of the surrounding country with its stately harbor of ever-increasing beauty.

If the charm of a visit to Hamburg belongs to the present rather than the past, and to the verdure of summer rather than any merit of architecture or art, the fact that here is a free-born people is seen and felt at every turn. We read on the pages of history that Charlemagne was the founder of this town ; and if this be true, no people could have been more loyal to their birthright. The last of the Hanseatic cities to give up its crown of liberty, proudly worn for centuries, it still claims the freedom of an independent State, although with limitations as a member of the North German Empire.

Notwithstanding the pleasures which grew with each succeeding day, making life a luxury in the perfect days of early June, we kept in remembrance our vow to leave the well-beaten highway of travel “ to go afield a little.” Not that the home of the Vik-

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ings was altogether an unknown country, but the little knowledge we had made us hungry for more, and filled us with a keen anticipation of delight. To our imagination it had always seemed so far away, that when upon inquiry we found ourselves just upon the threshold, that Copenhagen was only fourteen hours from Hamburg, it materially diminished the dignity of going north ; and we therefore decided to lengthen the trip by spending our first night at Kiel. Reaching Altoona was a confession of the dignity of a free town we were leaving behind, and for which we had no bother of custom-house upon entering, as we did in crossing the geographical line at this neighboring town.

The country through which we passed was poor enough, until within a few miles of our destination the valley of the Eider River revealed some pictures of silvery lakes and wooded slopes, in pleasing contrast with the miles of dreary moors and bogs we had just passed. There was a cloud and damp over this June evening, which made the plain hotel welcome. We found our telegram had accomplished its mission, and realized once again the home comforts so often experienced on arriving at a strange place in a European hotel. We were tired, hungry, and sleepy. A good sup-

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per was on the table, and comfortable beds prepared.

From kindly sleep we had an early, but delicious waking the next morning by a superb band which was playing under our windows. The Lord High Admiral of the Prussian navy was making a visit at Kiel, and entertained at our hotel. This port having, a new naval academy, the two bands each in turn seemed to vie with the other in honoring their chief. The air was still, the sun had just risen over the town — scarcely yet awake — and these fine strains of greeting to J:he unfolding day, seemed a happy augur for our long anticipated visit to the land of romance.

We found the small town of Kiel interesting only as the great naval station of the Southern Baltic, and also as the battle-ground between Prussia and the Danes for Schleswig and Holstein. This maritime port was of great importance, and naturally the envy of Prussia, which, after years of struggle, she absorbed into her already large domain, t since which time she has built the fine naval academy. It is a quiet, peaceful-looking bay ; so shut in on every side that from a land view it resembles a lake ; still, close by the shore the water is deep enough for the largest men-of-war to find safe an-

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II chorage, and they glory in the name of the Sebastopol of the Baltic. A ducal palace crowned one of the hills, with noble trees and shaded walks stretching to the edge of the water, commanding picturesque views across the harbor.

Strong fortifications studded the shores of the bay seaward, and as we turned our faces toward the ship amid a blaze of sunshine, with this tranquil picture before us, we found to our dismay, once outside the harbor, that our day of trial on the North Sea was rough waters. Neither were our hearts encouraged by the prospect, when told that the little steamer used to run between Osteqd and Dover, an unpleasant memory to some of the party. However, a few hours of the blackest weather was a small matter after an Atlantic voyage, and we assumed a sublime indifference. The passage was slow and rough ; a fact which most of the passengers admitted without resistance. The scramble for easy places in the little saloon on the deck was amusing ; but the sitters, of nine different nationalities, prevented much ocular demonstration of sympathy in the midst of the general suffering.

A more beautiful sky or more delicious air could hardly be conceived, and in spite of a chopping sea,

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three of our party kept a lookout upon what there was to be seen along the attractive coasts. It must be admitted, however, that we were not enthusiastic ; and although we passed some spots rich in historic memories of this land of renown, we longed to change our medium of travel in this sight-seeing under difficulties.

Seven hours of fasting had given us good appetites ; therefore it was a double pleasure to sail into the little harbor at Korsor. Moreover, as we had three hours of travel by rail before our day’s journey was done, our hearts were made glad as we stepped off the steamer, to see the word Restanration in ugly, but plain letters, on a little building hard by, just what we longed for ; so on we rushed with the crowd. Already every seat was taken ; still we could be lookers-on.

Alas ! what were these people eating ! — raw ham, raw fish, black bread, and cheese. Was civilization so far behind ? Only seven hours since we breakfasted delightfully at Kiel, the very thought of which added to our disappointment. True, we were hungry, but we were not savages ; and turning away in disgust, fortunately met a Swedish gentleman, compagnon du voyage , who understood English, and seeing disappointment in our faces,

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as well as hearing anathemas from our lips, came to our relief ; took us to a small room, where good bread, butter, and coffee restored amiability, and fortified us for the remainder of the journey.

We were charmed to find the country rich in agriculture — with the snug homes of the farmers built in a nest of trees — a wise protection from the rigorous winter. There were also beauty and variety of landscape, handsome forests, and numberless lakes made doubly attractive in the calm of the lingering twilight.

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Chapter II. Copenhagen

The long and eventful day at length closed in as the train made its final stop at Copenhagen, amid a crowd of people. There was, however, neither noise or confusion, but that quiet order which everywhere marks the railroad management of European cities. Although nearly midnight, we were surprised to see the streets filled with men, women, and children, as we drove to our hotel ; and also observed on entering the handsome court of the De 1’ Europe — our destination— that a large part of this household was still very much awake. We soon learned, however, that this had been an eventful day at the Danish capital ; the glory, and pleasure, and pride of which, reached far into the night.

The beautiful Rosenborg Gardens, with all its approaches, had been a literal pack of eager spectators, from King Christian IX. and his numerous “ kith and kin,” down to the humblest peasant, to (14)

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witness the unveiling of the beloved Hans Christian Andersen’s monument. We realized in the recital of this story a fresh experience of national appreciation, which from further observation proved no fancy on our part — but history expressed equally by men of the highest rank and the humbler classes. A more touching proof of this could not have been given than in the fact, that when this beloved countryman died, the king followed his bier to the grave, and the whole nation went into mourning.

The new statue is a handsome tribute to the memory of oqe so universally beloved — of gold bronze, in colossal size. The figure is that of a kindly man of seventy years — in a sitting posture, the body slightly bent forward, and the right arm extended in harmony with the expression of the face, — both full of sincere, earnest invitation, as though speaking. The panels of the granite pedestal have some bas-reliefs of his stories, — one of the storks, another of the swans ; while upon the front panel is this inscription : “ Monument to the Poet for the sake of his Stories ; from the Danish folks.”

The sweetest enjoyment connected with this loving gift of the people, was in watching the delight and veneration for the good Hans Christian, in the faces of the humbler classes. We always saw at the evening hour, some pretty family groups, men, women, and little children, seated near the statue in earnest talk, probably over some of the simple stories — which doubtless were their stories. There was no doubt in their expression of ownership, as they looked on the silent bronze ; for though this man in the later period of life was clothed in purple and fine linen, yet to them he was always what he wished to be— their friend — the peasant boy.

Sir John Lubbock truly says, that the Danes occupy a larger and more important place in history than they do on the map of Europe. Were not this the case, shorn as they are at present of Schleswig and Holstein, they would seem to be playing at royalty. At this time Denmark is left to the small area of 14,200 square miles, in a latitude which reaches fifty-seven degrees north, with few resources of wealth. No mineral products; unimportant manufacturing ; the principal revenue being agriculture, and a population of less than 2,000,000.

This is not a large opportunity for sovereign rule ; but if the reigning monarch has but little to do in his own small realm, except to watch the

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enormous appetite of Germany’s Prime Minister, there comes to his house some reflected glory by matrimonial alliances, which at present bound the entire continent of Europe. The queen (Louisa) is a German princess, and the powerful thrones of England and Russia are the future destinies of the fair Princesses Alexandra and Dagmar. While the Crown Prince Frederick is married to a sister of the present King of Sweden, Oscar II., the second son, George, now the King of Greece, is married to a Russian Princess, daughter of Duke Constantine, and the third daughter, Thyen, is the wife of the Duke of Cumberland.

We are told that Copenhagen dates from the twelfth century, and the fact that it was once a fortress is very evident from its strong defence toward the sea by powerful forts. A narrow arm of the sea separates the town into two parts. Seeland contains the city proper, while the small island of Amager forms the harbor, evidently capacious enough for a much larger traffic than exists at the present time. The Danish capital is a disappointment to one who goes there for architectural beauty. The tints everywhere are cold and gray, and this poverty in color is only rivalled by absence of form. Its four State buildings, including the Palace of Christiansborg, offer nothing upon their exteriors to beguile the tourist. The royal abode closely resembles barracks, only rescued from tameness by some Corinthian pilasters, and a few bas-reliefs of Thorwaldsen.

These buildings were once the homes of wealthy noblemen, and certainly the State has not been impoverished by their outward adornment. However, it sometimes is found that costly treasures are hidden beneath plain exteriors ; so inside these ugly walls are seen collections by the great masters in art, which might justly be the envy of the affluent nations of the continent. Among them are some pictures of Exner, a favorite painter of the intimate life of the Danish folk. Like Andersen, in his tales, Exner loves to introduce the story of northern life, through the quiet interior of a home in the long winter.

A curious square, called Kongens Nytorv, forms the centre of the town, around which stand many public buildings, — the Royal Theatre; the Academy of Arts ; Count Moltke’s Gallery ; cafes, and the fine hotel, De V Europe, which was our temporary home. From this point everything radiates — • streets, highways, tramways, in all directions. The square is feebly adorned by an equestrian statue of

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Christian V. ; but judging from the superbly arched necks of the horses we saw both in public and private carriages, this specimen of a portrait represented a very different species of animal from those of the present time. From this point, also, the stranger naturally has his first outlook upon the North — a fresh and new experience, because it is old, and little known. We had come to the land of romance, and we see the story is preserved. Modern growth has not obliterated history and tradition.

We were fortunate in the finest of weather. The sky continued unclouded ; the air elastic, and a thrill of pleasure over expectations realized filled the veins. This was the land of the Vikings — robbers and pirates by name, yet in their time, potential as navigators, and rich in story. In looking across the centuries, at the enterprises of these wild adventurers, happy only on the stormy seas, our new country seems older, and more important, because first known to those lords of the sea, who, sailing out of the ice and desolation in which they were born, crossed the Atlantic in their “ crazy barks,” with a skill and courage which belong only to the name of Viking.

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THORWALDSEN.

But of to-day. It is not in vain that the tourist in coming hither takes for his text Thorwaldsen. It is written everywhere — in highways, byways, squares, public buildings, churches, palaces, and shops of high as well as low degree. Like Shakespeare, who dedicates and crowns that delightful spot in the garden of England, Stratford-on-Avon, so this great sculptor, whom the Northmen proudly call their Phidias, is the glory, the tutelary genius of Copenhagen, and gives it a classic flavor. The text is a proud theme, and will bear any amount of amplification, especially when standing under the roof which holds his collected works.

In such a presence there can be no question of genius, and a feeling of awe, wonder, and surprise must creep over one at the thought that all this is the creation of a single brain. Behold how great is man! “crowned with glory and honor” ! made “only a little lower than the angels.” The museum is a curious structure, and looks as though placed in uncomfortable relations with the North. As this museum was originally planned for a mausoleum as well, the architecture was borrowed from the old Greek and Etruscan sepulchral buildings. The

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work was commenced in 1839, and although simple in all its details, nine years passed before it was completed. It is a quadrangle in shape, covered on the outside with frescoes representing the triumphal return of Thorwaldsen to his native land in 1838, after a life of eighteen years in the Eternal City.

The colors have been greatly affected by the rigorous winters of the North, and surrounded as it is by the cold, grave, solid buildings of this latitude, it has a singularly cheap appearance, quite unworthy such honored service, and forcibly illustrates the folly of trying to transplant the architecture which belongs to sunny Italy or Greece to the Arctic regions. This ugly exterior is somewhat relieved, however, by'the fine group, “ Victory,” which surmounts the facade, and from an outlook over the city, which makes it especially commanding. She is pulling up her Quadriga, and is a striking' piece of art, executed in bronze, after a sketch by the great master.

Each story of the building has a corridor looking into the court-yard or quadrangle, and a series of small rooms — cabinets, forty-two in all — open into this, where, arranged with exquisite taste, the visitor walks on and on with ever-growing won-

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der, to read but the name of one man as the creator of all that is before him. In the centre of the court-yard— which is decorated in Pompeian style — the body of the noble artist rests, beneath an ivy-covered vault, built during his life, in accordance with his own wishes. The granite frame bears this simple inscription: “ Bertel Thorwaldsen, born 19th November, 1770; died 24th March, 1844.”

This is well. No costly monument or words of high-sounding panegyric are needed here. “ His works do praise him,” and through him the great master will live on through the coming ages.

The first story is wholly devoted to sculpture ; and in each room one of the prominent familiar works of the artist occupies a central position — one hundred and six of which are already finished in marble.

Who has not sometime in life had the delicious experience in looking at some gem of art, which years of anticipation had made beautiful, that after all his ideal was but a faint conception of the reality of which heretofore he had seen only a feeble copy. Bas-relief seemed here a revelation ; and although many of the smaller gems were well known to the world by imitations in plaster, as well as engravings, yet in each case we recognized the fact that they were new.

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It is not easy to keep a party of half a dozen near each other, where shrines are so many and tastes so varied, yet one is sure to find worshippers before the “ Mercury” and “ Fadori,” especially as there is sure to be one of a company who has a guide-book. “Night” is one of the most familiar of Thorwaldsen’s creations, and it is pleasure without alloy to stand before this exquisite conception. What inspiration in the thought of this delicate, womanly figure floating through the air, her head crowned with poppy leaves. On her calm face an expression worthy of Mary, the mother of Christ ; in her arms, tenderly folded, the two dear babes, — the one sweetly sleeping, the other a beautiful, but lifeless form. The marble is so full of repose and gentle sleep, that the very spell of rest creeps over one while gazing, and you feel sure when morning comes life will reanimate again this precious form.

“ Day,” too, is bewitching with her bright face, washed in dew, scattering her glittering flowers in the rosy morn — that I had seen before ; but never the “ Night.” Both of these gems are said to be the result of an afternoon’s work. To “ Night ” he gave four hours, with his dog and cat as companions. “ Day ” was but a rounded period to the

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first conception, at least as they looked in the spotless marble. How impossible to calculate that these gems were not only conceived and modelled, but many of them executed in the marble by the master’s own hands.

A visit to what is called the Great Hall, is the most satisfactory place in the Museum to see the versatility of his genius, as this exhibition has special reference to strong contrasts. One side of the hall is wholly given to an equestrian figure of a Polish noble, Poniatowski. Pius VII., in his pontifical robes ; to the right, Divine Strength ; to the left, Heavenly Wisdom ; and on the pedestal two Angels sustain the arms of His Holiness.

The poet Schiller, Nicolaus Copernicus, and crowning all the famous frieze of Alexander’s triumphal entry into Babylon, colossal in thought and execution, to the right ; Alexander with his train, to the left; Babylon and its surroundings; and in the centre the captured moving in procession to meet the victor. At the opposite end of this quadrangle is the Hall of Christ, which contains the plaster casts of the Twelve Apostles, the fame of which has reached every corner of the globe where art is appreciated and a religious sentiment felt. We had not yet seen the marbles, and

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still we paused again at this fresh revelation of universal genius. In his Mercuries he equalled the sculptors of early Greece, and now you are filled with awe at the solemnity with which he treats divine things.

There was a suggestion in the entrance corridor of an old acquaintance (all the rest is profoundly new) in the Lion of Lucerne, which looked natural and friendly from associations far removed, however, from any interest in the great sculptor. Sir Walter Scott’s kindly face gave a cheer to the well-filled hall ; but the chief work of interest to be found in this grouping is a beautiful bas-relief, “The Guardian Angel,” symbolical of Thorwald- -sen’s own history and early life. There is exquisite kindness in the face of the angel, — represented as sending her child forth into the world carefully but securely shadowed by her own protecting wing.

The second story of the Museum is to the Danes a hallowed spot, being little less than the artist’s private salon, where with reverential care all that belonged to him personally, — the arrangement of furniture, pictures, books, curios, — no modern invader is allowed to disturb. There are some good pictures which the artist brought from Italy, as

also a few books worthy a pause ; but the value of 2

2 6

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this part of the Museum, naturally and rightfully belongs to his countrymen. This was certainly a fresh experience to look upon so large a mass of what a single man had done, — limited, as he is, to the little span of threescore years and ten, — the interest of which must grow with each succeeding visit.

If the theory of heredity, surroundings, and early education has small chance to assert itself in this august presence, opportunity must play a conspicuous role in the history of Thorwaldsen. Whether he was born in Iceland or Copenhagen (a disputed question among writers of his day) matters little. His father was poor, — a ship-builder by trade, of Icelandic origin, — and the boy Bertel spent many hours of his early years in a woodshed, not only in cutting figure-heads for Danish ships, but in beautifying his father’s rough work. If the Attic fire did not burn around him, there were such early indications of extraordinary talent in the boy, that, in his twelfth year, he was placed gratuitously in the Academy of Fine Arts, where he succeeded in obtaining prizes of great merit.

The first prize of the institution was a gold medal, to which was added a travelling stipendium entitling the successful winner to a salary for three years. For this the young Thorwaldsen worked with a will, and no sooner was it gained than he as naturally found his way to the Eternal City as the hungry child seeks food of its mother. The sight of the great models of antiquity, which makes Rome what it is, revealed to the young sculptor his destiny, and he was known to say : “ At this moment I was born ; until then I did not exist.” After six years of hard work this hitherto unknown child of the chilly North awoke to find himself illustrious where classic art had flourished for centuries. The statue of Jason was completed. His generous friend and lifelong patron, Mr. Hope, had ordered its execution in marble ; and the great Canova had awarded it his warm testimonial of admiration.

To date from this moment of proud success is to record a history of triumphal progress. One historian says that “ he was more praised while living than any known artist.” Surrounded by admirers, petted by princes, covered with the gifts of favor, with a kingly court, this poor artisan of Copenhagen filled all the capitals of Europe with the sound of his name ; not a prince who did not wish him to fix his features in marble for the benefit of posterity. Popes, kings, queens, paid him homage

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by asking that they be perpetuated through the genius of his chisel. And it is recorded that, amid the general enthusiasm, an extravagant Italian poet styles him the son of God, while Horace Vernet crowned him with laurel at a banquet. This wonderful record of success is almost a solitary one. Great achievement in art seems, as a rule, to be born of conflict and struggle; but Thorwaldsen received from his contemporaries, and wore with a complaisant though unspoiled assurance, that triumphal crown which is too often the ornament of a tomb.

While Copenhagen applauded from a distance the success of her illustrious son ; still, as the years rolled on, he quietly kept his place of loving devotion to his one mistress — Art ; untouched by the homage of admirers from classic lands, except that through those many avenues, as an open door, inspiration flowed in, and high achievement was gained. Nearly half a century of work had passed, forty-three years of life in Rome, where the artist had spent his real life. Still, he wished to go back to his own country with a last farewell to the imperial classic city.