Browne John Ross
The Land of Thor
CHAPTER XXV.
WALKS ABOUT STOCKHOLM
If you expect any very lively or striking pictures of Stockholm from a tourist like myself, whose besetting trouble in life is a constitutional melancholy, I am afraid you will be disappointed. It is beyond doubt one of the most agreeable cities in the North, and, so far as public institutions are concerned, affords a fine field of research for the antiquarian and the naturalist. Any enterprising gentleman who desires to improve his mind by the study of Puffendorf can here find the original. Linnæus, Berzelius, and others will materially assist him in grasping at the mysteries of animated creation; and if he be of a poetical turn, he can enjoy Belman in the unadulterated Scandinavian metre. For me, however, the public museums and libraries possessed only an external interest. I would gladly have devoted the remainder of my life to Scandinavian researches, but, having several other important matters to attend to, I was reluctantly forced to give up the idea. The main object at present was to escape from “an eternal lethargy of woe,” which seemed to grow worse and worse every day. I really had nothing particular to afflict me, yet I both felt and looked like “a man sore acquaint with grief.” Day after day I wandered about the streets in search of excitement. All in vain; such a luxury is unknown to strangers in Stockholm. I visited the fruit-markets, jostled about among the simple and kind-hearted peasants, bought bunches of cherries and baskets of raspberries from the pretty peasant-girls, and then stood eating my way into their acquaintance, while they laughed, and talked, and wondered where in the world such a strange man came from, and when I told them I came from California they looked incredulous, having probably never of such a country. Then I strolled down through the fish-market, where there were a great many queer fish exposed for sale by ancient and slimy old men and women, whose hands and aprons were covered with fish-scales, and whose faces had a very fishy expression. They offered me fish in every shape – skinned, gutted, chopped up, or whole, just as I pleased to buy them. One wrinkled old woman, with a voice much broken by shouting against the Gulf storms from high rocks, or some such cause, called my attention to a monster fish that must have weighed at least sixty pounds, and insisted upon letting me have it at a reduced price. I shook my head and smiled. In that smile I suppose the sagacious old fishwoman discovered the pliancy of my disposition, for she immediately commenced a wild harangue on the merits of the fish, scarcely a word of which I understood. Two or three times I started to leave, but each time she made a motion to detain me. The fact is, I was afraid she would get hold of me with her fishy hands, and was considerably embarrassed what to do. The price of the fish was reasonable enough – only two marks (about forty cents); but I had no use for it, and did not like to carry it to my hotel. The worst of it was, the old woman thought the price was the only obstacle, and finally came down to a mark and a half. What was to be done? From Billingsgate to Stockholm, it is notorious that a disappointed fishwoman is a very dangerous and uncertain foe to be encountered by any man, however brave. She began to get excited at the bare prospect of having taken so much trouble for nothing. Several of her friends began to gather round. A cold tremor ran through my frame. There seemed to be no possible way of evading the purchase without creating an unpleasant scene. To make an end of it, I bought the fish. With a bunch of grass wrapped around its tail, I made my way through the crowd. To be sure, I felt a little ashamed to be perambulating the streets of a strange city with a big fish in my hand, yet I could not well throw it down on the sidewalk, and was afraid, if I offered it to some little boy, he might stick his tongue in his cheek, and ask me if I saw any thing green in the corner of his eye. The case was getting worse and worse every moment. People stopped and looked at me as I passed. My arm was getting tired. Fortunately, I was close to the quay. A happy thought struck me; I walked over to the water’s edge and cast the fish into his native element. “Go,” said I, in the language of my uncle Toby; “there’s room enough in the world for you and me.” What the by-standers thought of the act I did not wait to see. It was enough that I was clear of a very unpleasant companion, though an ancient and fish-like odor remained with me for some time after. As for the fish, I doubt if he ever came to life; he must have been dead for several days when I bought him, judging by a taint upon my hands, which the best soap could not eradicate.
After this I rambled gloomily along the quays, and wondered what every body was waiting for. There were small vessels enough lying at the wharves, but every body on board seemed to be taking it easy. Cooks were lying asleep on the galleys; skippers were sitting on the poop, smoking socially with their crews; small boys, with red night-caps on their heads, were stretched out upon the hatchways, playing push-pin, and eating crusts of black bread; stevedores, with dusty sacks on their shoulders, were lounging about on the wharf, waiting for something in the way of trade to turn up; shabby citizens, who seemed to be out of profitable employment, were sitting on the loose timbers overlooking the water, bobbing for fish, and never catching any so far as I could perceive; and scattering crowds of idlers were strolling idly along like myself, in search of something particular to look at, but, failing to discover it, they looked about at things generally, and then strolled on to look at something else. I sighed at the stagnation of business, and hoped it would never be my fate to be engaged in mercantile affairs in Stockholm. Before the Gotha Canal was completed this was a very brisk city; but since that period, Gottenburg, being more accessible, has monopolized much of the European trade. The principal trade of Stockholm now consists of exports of iron, and imports of sugar, coffee, and liquors. Throughout the interior the peasantry manufacture most of the articles required for their own use, such as clothing, implements of husbandry, etc., so that they are not large consumers of foreign commodities. Finding it very dull in town, I walked out in the suburbs, which are pretty and picturesque, though primitive enough to be a thousand miles from a commercial city. The houses are chiefly constructed of wood, painted yellow, with red roofs, and neatly ornamented with verandas; and the people have a quaint and simple look, as if they knew but little of the world, and did not care much to trouble their heads about the progress of events. Here as well as elsewhere, children continue to be born in great numbers, and groups of them were to be seen before every house playing in the mud just as little cotton-headed children play all over the world. I say cotton-headed, because these were of the blue-eyed, white-haired race who have a natural affinity for muddy places, and whose cheeks have a natural propensity to gather bloom and dirt at the same time.
I struck out on the high points of the Normalm, and on one of them discovered an old church, surrounded by trees, with benches conveniently placed beneath their shade for weary pedestrians. Here were family groups quietly enjoying the fresh air, the men smoking and drinking, while the women and girls economized time by knitting and sewing. I took a vacant seat and looked down over the city. Surely a prettier prospect could not exist upon earth. There lay the city of the sea outspread beneath, its irregular streets, quaint old houses and churches covering every available space; the numerous wooded islands in the vicinity dotted with villas; sloops and boats floating dreamily on the Malar Lake, and larger vessels gliding over the waters of the Baltic; dense forests of pine dim in the distance; and over all a strangely colored Northern light, that gave the scene something of a spectral aspect. Yet the spirit of repose that seemed cast over this fair scene was absolutely oppressive to one like myself, accustomed to an active life. From the high points I wandered down into the low places, through narrow and tortuous streets; gazed into the stables and cow-houses; watched the tinners, and coppersmiths, and shoemakers as they wound up the labors of the day in their dingy little shops; peered into the greasy little meatshops and antiquated grocery-stores; studied the faces of the good people who slowly wended their way homeward, and bowed to several old ladies out of pure kindliness and good feeling; then wandered back into the public places, still pursued by a green and yellow melancholy. I gazed steadfastly at the statues of Gustavus Vasa, Charles XII., and Berzelius, and tried in vain to remember something of their history. I went into the picture-shops, took off my hat to small boys behind the counter, looked at the pictures, and bought several, for which I had no earthly use; then I went to the café on the bridge, drank coffee and cognac, and attempted to read the Swedish newspapers, of which I understood every letter, but not a word; after which I heard the whistle of a small steam-boat at the end of the café garden, and ran down in a hurry to get on board. The steam-boat was about equal to a good-sized yawl, and was bound for some port unknown to me; but that made no difference. I never see a boat of any kind going any where, or a locomotive, or a carriage, or any thing that moves by steam, sails, horse-power, or electricity, without feeling an unconquerable desire to be off too, so that I very much fear, if I should come across a convict vessel bound for Van Diemen’s Land, it would be impossible for me to avoid jumping on board and going with the crowd. In the present case it was essentially necessary that I should keep moving. I was almost sinking under the oppressive loneliness of the place. Rather than remain another hour within the limits of such a dreary old city, I would have taken passage in a tread-mill, and relied upon the force of imagination to carry me to some other place. Nay, a hangman’s cart on the way to the gallows would have presented a strong temptation. In saying this I mean nothing disrespectful to Birger Jarl, who founded Stockholm, and made it his place of residence in 1260; nor to Christina Gyllenstierna, who so heroically defended it against Christian II. of Denmark in the sixteenth century; nor to Gustavus Vasa, the brave liberator of Sweden; nor his noble and heroic grandson, Gustavus Adolphus; nor any body else famous in Swedish history; but the truth of it is, Sweden at the present day is essentially a home country, and the people are too domestic in their habits and modes of thought to afford any peculiar interest to a casual tourist. I like their simple and genial manners, and respect them for their sterling integrity, yet these are traits of no great value to one who travels so far out of the world in search of objects of more stirring interest. The ordinary traveler, who has no time to dive very deep beneath the surface of human life, is not satisfied to find things nearly as he finds them at home; streets, shops, and houses undistinguished by any peculiarity save the inconveniences and oddities of age; people every where around him who dress like all other civilized people, and possess the standard virtues and weaknesses of humanity; the proprieties of life decently observed, and loyalty to forms and time-honored usages a national characteristic. A Swede would no more violate a rule of etiquette, smile or bow out of place, eat a beefsteak or drink his schnapps at an unusual hour, or strike out any thing novel or original in the way of pleasure, profit, or enterprise, than a German. The court circle is the most formal in Europe, and the upper classes of society are absolute slaves to conventionality. A presentation at court is an event of such signal importance that weeks of preparation are required for the impressive ordeal; and when the tailor, and shoemaker, and the jeweler have done their part, and the unhappy victim, all bedeviled with finery and befrogged with lace, is brought into the presence of royalty, it is a miracle if he gets through without committing some dire offense against the laws of etiquette. Fine carriages, coats of arms, uniforms, and badges of office, are held in high veneration; and while the government is liberal and the people profess to be independent, their slavish devotion to rank, dress, and etiquette surpasses any thing I saw in Russia. With this, to be sure, is mingled a certain simplicity of manner and kindliness of expression toward inferiors which sometimes lead the stranger to believe that he is among a democratic people, but they are as far from democracy as the Prussians or the Austrians. The very affability of the superior to the inferior is the best evidence of the inseparable gulf that lies between them. In Russia there is the charm of barbarism, savagery, filth, and show; the people are loose, ferocious, daring, and wild; here in Sweden, the quiet, decent, home-aspect of the people, their rigid observance of the rules of etiquette, their devotion to royalty, law, and order, are absolutely depressing. In the abstract, many traits in their character are worthy of admiration, but as a traveler I detest this kind of civilization. Give me a devil or a savage at all times, who outrages the rules of society and carries an advertisement of character on his back. As an artist I can make something of him, either in the way of copy or pencil-sketches.
Which brings me back to my situation, in the natural course of events. The whistle blows. The little steam-boat is about to stop at the landing-place of the Djurgaard. The engineer, smutty and oily with hard service, gives a turn to the crank, pulls an iron bar with a polished handle, and then pushes it; the tea-kettle boiler fizzes and whizzes, and lets off steam; the paddles stop paddling; the gentlemen passengers stand up and adjust their shirt collars; the ladies gather their shawls around them, and pick up their scattered bundles; with a whirl and a jerk we are alongside the wharf, and the captain jumps from the bow with a rope in his hand, and makes all fast to a logger-head. And now step ashore, if you please, ladies and gentlemen, and let us take a stroll through the deer garden, where
“The ash and warrior oak
Cast anchor in the rifted rock.”
The walks through this beautiful park (said to be the finest attached to any capital in Europe) are broad, and handsomely graded. Grand old forest-trees on either side make “a boundless contiguity of shade” over the greensward. Pavilions and rustic summer-houses stand on the high points of rock, commanding magnificent views of the adjacent islands and waters of the lake. Flower-gardens are numerous, and every nook and dell contains some place of refreshment, where the gay company who frequent these delightful grounds in the long summer evenings can drink their tea and enjoy the varied beauties of the scene. Wandering through these sylvan glades, the eye is continually charmed with the rare combinations of natural and artificial beauties scattered around in every direction with such wonderful prodigality. At one moment you imagine yourself in a wilderness, hundreds of miles from any human habitation, so dense are the shades of the grand old forest-trees, and so wild and rugged the moss-covered rocks; a few steps bring you suddenly upon some fairy scene, where palaces and temples, gilded carriages, gayly-dressed companies of ladies and gentlemen, and groups of children sporting upon the grass, dispel the illusion. Ascending to the highest points by the narrow and tortuous by-paths, I could almost fancy myself in the midst of the Coast Range, so perfect was the isolation; then coming out suddenly upon some projecting cliff, the change of scene from rugged grandeur to the perfection of civilization was absolutely magical. Vegetation in this northern region, where the summer are so short and warm, flourishes with an almost tropical luxuriance. The melting of the snows in spring, followed by heavy rains and sudden heat, causes the earth to give forth its products with a prodigality that compensates in some degree for the long and dreary winters. Trees burst into leaf as if by magic; flowers shoot up and bloom in a few weeks; the grass, enriched by the snows, springs forth and covers the earth like a gorgeous carpet of velvet. All nature rejoices in the coming of the long summer days. The birds sing in the groves; the bees hum merrily around the flowers; the gay butterflies flit through the sunbeams; and day and night are an almost continued period of revelry for all those beautiful and ephemeral creatures that droop and die with the flowers. I have nowhere seen such a profusion of intensely rich green and such wonderfully deep shades as in the neighborhood of Stockholm. It is almost oppressive to one accustomed to California scenery, where the whole face of the country wears a dry red-and-yellowish hue in summer. Strange how one’s tastes change by association! I well remember when I first entered the Golden Gate, in August, 1849, after a long and dreary voyage round Cape Horn. Glad as I was to see land once more, it struck me that I had never looked upon so barren and desolate a country. The hill-sides had the appearance of parched and sodless deserts. Yet I soon learned to like that warm glow. I slept upon those parched hills, breathed the invigorating air, and felt the inspiration of California life. I would not now exchange the summer drapery of our hills and valleys for the deepest green upon earth. To my present frame of mind there is something flat and chilling in this redundancy of verdure that reminds one of death and the grave-yard. The moss-covered rocks jutting from the cold, grassy earth; the dripping fern; the pale, flitting gleams of sunshine struggling through the depths of foliage; the mould that seems to hang in the air – all these strike me as death-like. I long for the vital glow of a more genial sun, whose all-pervading light is reflected from the rich golden earth, shooting health and vigor through every fibre of the frame, permeating body and soul with its effulgence. Such intensity of light, such warmth of colors, fill the dullest mind with inspiration; the blood is quickened in its circulation; the respiration is full and free; the intellect becomes clearer and sharper; the whole man is quickened into the highest condition of mental and physical vitality. Is it a matter of wonder, then, that the people of California should be brave, generous, and loyal – that they should have a high sense of right, and an undying scorn of wrong? I hold that the species is improved by the climate and the country – that stronger men and better men are now undergoing the process of development in California than in any other country on the face of the earth. If we live fast and die suddenly, it is the natural consequence of increased bodily and mental vigor, which too often leads to excesses, but which, under proper training, must eventually lead to the highest moral and intellectual achievements. The fault does not lie in our climate. I have yet seen none to equal it North or South – not even in Italy. I do not think the climate of Sweden is conducive to longevity, or extraordinary mental or bodily vigor. Indeed, the same may be said of any climate abounding in such rigorous extremes. The Swedes, it is true, lead a placid and easy life, content with ordinary comforts, and worried by no exciting or disquieting ambitions; hence they enjoy good health, and generally get through the usual span allotted to man. If the same sanitary rules were observed in our country, there would be less sickness and fewer untimely deaths. Dissipation is not rare in Sweden, especially in the capital cities, but it is more methodical with us. The people have certain times and occasions for getting drunk; they make a regular business of it. Virulent and disgusting diseases are also prevalent among them, so that between the rigors of climate and other causes less excusable, they frequently appear old and decrepit before their time. That among the middle classes there are fine-looking men and beautiful women, is true; that in literature, science, and music, they can boast names that will go down to posterity, is a fact that can not be denied; but I think such a climate and the habits engendered by it are inimical to the highest order of physical and mental development among the masses. Hence we find throughout the country many diseased and deformed persons of both sexes; many weakly and not a few imbecile. The peasants are not so hardy and robust as I expected to find them; and I was told by competent judges, better informed than I could hope to become during so brief a sojourn, that they are progressively degenerating year after year, and can not now compare with the peasants of former times.
To say that I was charmed with my ramble through the Djurgaard would but faintly express the pleasure I derived from my visit to this beautiful park. Of all the resorts for recreation that I have yet seen in Northern Europe, I give it the palm for natural beauty and tasteful cultivation. In this the Swedes excel. Their villas, gardens, and parks are unsurpassed, and no people in the world better understand how to enjoy them.
Late in the evening I returned to my hotel, delighted with all I had seen. I was anxious to extend my rambles to Upsala, and to visit more in detail the various beautiful islands and places of interest in the vicinity of Stockholm; but the season was advancing, and I was reluctantly compelled to push on toward Norway.
