LAST DAYS IN THE NORTH.

Mora, in Dalecarlia, is classic ground.  It was here that Gustavus Vasa first harangued the people, and kindled that spark of revolution, which in the end swept the Danes from Sweden.  In the cellar of a house which was pointed out to us, on the southern shore of the Siljan Lake, he lay hidden three days; in the barn of Ivan Elfssen he threshed corn, disguised as a peasant; and on the road by which we had travelled from Kettbo, in descending to the lake, we had seen the mounds of stone, heaped over the Danes, who were slain in his first victorious engagement.  This district is considered, also, one of the most beautiful in Sweden.  It has, indeed, a quiet, tranquil beauty, which gradually grows upon the eye, so that if one is not particularly aroused on first acquaintance, he at least carries away a delightful picture in his memory.  But in order to enjoy properly any Swedish landscape whatsoever, one should not be too fresh from Norway.

After dinner we called at the “Parsonage of Mora,” which has given Miss Fredrika Bremer the materials for one of her stories of Swedish life.

The Prost, Herr Kjelstrom, was not at home, but his wife received us with great cordiality, and insisted upon our remaining to tea.  The magister ­, who called at the same time, gave us some information concerning the porphyry quarries at Elfdal, which we were debating whether we should visit.  Very little is doing at present, not more than ten men in all being employed, and in his opinion we would hardly be repaid for the journey thither; so we determined to turn southward again, and gradually make our way to Stockholm.  Fru Kjelstrom was one of the few Swedes I met, who was really an enthusiastic admirer of Tegner; she knew by heart the greater part of his “Frithiof’s Saga.”

The morning after our arrival in Mora dawned dark and cloudy, with a wailing wind and dashes of rain.  There were threats of the equinoctial storm, and we remembered the prediction of the lumber merchants in Carlstad.  During the night, however, a little steamer belonging to an iron company arrived, offering us the chance of a passage down the lake to Leksand.  While we were waiting on the shore, the magister, who had come to see us depart, gave me some information about the Lasare.  He admitted that there were many in Dalecarlia, and said that the policy of persecution, which was practiced against them in the beginning, was now dropped.  They were, in general, ignored by the clerical authorities.  He looked upon the movement rather as a transient hallucination than as a permanent secession from the Established Church, and seemed to think that it would gradually disappear, if left to itself.  He admitted that the king was in favour of religious liberty, but was so guarded in speaking of the subject that I did not ascertain his own views.

We had on board about sixty passengers, mostly peasants from Upper Elfdal, bound on a peddling excursion through Sweden, with packs of articles which they manufacture at home.  Their stock consisted mostly of pocket-books, purses, boxes, and various small articles of ornament and use.  The little steamer was so well laden with their solid forms that she settled into the mud, and the crew had hard poling to get her off.  There was service in Mora Church, and the sound of the organ and choir was heard along the lake.  Many friends and relatives of the wandering Elfdalians were on the little wooden pier to bid them adieu.  “God’s peace be with thee!” was a parting salutation which I heard many times repeated.  At last we got fairly clear and paddled off through the sepia-coloured water, watching the softly undulating shores, which soon sank low enough to show the blue, irregular hills in the distant background.  Mora spire was the central point in the landscape, and remained visible until we had nearly reached the other end of the lake.  The Siljan has a length of about twenty-five miles, with a breadth of from six to ten.  The shores are hilly, but only moderately high, except in the neighborhood of Rattvik, where they were bold and beautiful.  The soft slopes on either hand were covered with the yellow pillars of the ripe oats, bound to upright stakes to dry.  From every village rose a tall midsummer pole, yet laden with the withered garlands of Sweden’s fairest festival, and bearing aloft its patriotic symbol, the crossed arrows of Dalecarlia.  The threatened storm broke and dispersed as we left Mora, and strong sun-bursts between the clouds flashed across these pastoral pictures.

Soon after we left, a number of the men and women collected together on the after-deck, and commenced singing hymns, which occupation they kept up with untiring fervour during the whole voyage.  The young girls were remarkable for weight and solidity of figure, ugliness of face, and sweetness of voice.  The clear, ringing tones, with a bell-like purity and delicious timbre, issued without effort from between their thick, beefy lips, and there was such a contrast between sound and substance, that they attracted my attention more than I should have thought possible.  Some of the men, who had heard what we were, entered into conversation with us.  I soon discovered that they were all Lasare, and one of them, who seemed to exercise a kind of leadership, and who was a man of considerable intelligence, gave me a good deal of information about the sect.  They met together privately, he said, to read the New Testament, trusting entirely to its inspired pages for the means of enlightenment as to what was necessary for the salvation of their souls.  The clergy stood between them and the Voice of God, who had spoken not to a particular class, but to all mankind.  They were liable to a fine of 200 rigs ($52) every time they thus met together, my informant had once been obliged to pay it himself.  Nevertheless, he said they were not interfered with so much at present, except that they were obliged to pay tithes, as before.  “The king is a good man,” he continued, “he means well, and would do us justice if he had the power; but the clergy are all against him, and his own authority is limited.  Now they are going to bring the question of religious freedom before the Diet, but we have not the least hope that anything will be done.”  He also stated ­what, indeed, must be evident to every observing traveller ­that the doctrines of the Lasare had spread very rapidly, and that their numbers were continually increasing.

The creation of such a powerful dissenting body is a thing that might have been expected.  The Church, in Sweden, had become a system of forms and ceremonies.  The pure spiritualism of Swedenborg, in the last century, was a natural and gigantic rebound to the opposite extreme, but, from its lofty intellectuality, was unfitted to be the nucleus of a popular protest.  Meanwhile, the souls of the people starved on the dry husks which were portioned out to them.  They needed genuine nourishment.  They are an earnest, reflective race, and the religious element is deeply implanted in their nature.  The present movement, so much like Methodism in many particulars, owes its success to the same genial and all-embracing doctrine of an impartial visitation of Divine grace, bringing man into nearer and tenderer relations to his Maker.  In a word, it is the democratic, opposed to the aristocratic principle in religion.  It is fashionable in Sweden to sneer at the Lasare; their numbers, character, and sincerity are very generally under-estimated.  No doubt there is much that is absurd and grotesque in their services; no doubt they run into violent and unchristian extremes, and often merely substitute fanaticism for spiritual apathy; but I believe they will in the end be the instrument of bestowing religious liberty upon Sweden.

There was no end to the desire of these people for knowledge.  They overwhelmed us with questions about our country, its government, laws, climate, productions and geographical extent.  Next to America, they seemed most interested in Palestine, and considered me as specially favoured by Providence in having beheld Jerusalem.  They all complained of the burdens which fall upon a poor man in Sweden, in the shape of government taxes, tithes, and the obligation of supporting a portion of the army, who are distributed through the provinces.  Thus Dalecarlia, they informed me, with a population of 132,000, is obliged to maintain 1200 troops.  The tax on land corresponded very nearly with the statement made by my female postillion the previous day.  Dalecarlia, its mines excepted, is one of the poorest of the Swedish provinces.  Many of its inhabitants are obliged to wander forth every summer, either to take service elsewhere, or to dispose of the articles they fabricate at home, in order, after some years of this irregular life, to possess enough to enable them to pass the rest of their days humbly at home.  Our fellow-passengers told me of several who had emigrated to America, where they had spent five or six years.  They grew home-sick at last, and returned to their chilly hills.  But it was not the bleak fir-woods, the oat-fields, or the wooden huts which they missed; it was the truth, the honesty, the manliness, and the loving tenderness which dwell in Dalecarlian hearts.

We had a strong wind abeam, but our little steamer made good progress down the lake.  The shores contracted, and the white church of Leksand rose over the dark woods, and between two and three o’clock in the afternoon, we were moored in the Dal River, where it issues from the Siljan.  The Elfdal peddlers shouldered their immense packs and set out, bidding us a friendly adieu as we parted.  After establishing ourselves in the little inn, where we procured a tolerable dinner, we called upon the Domprost Hvasser, to whom I had a letter from a countryman who made a pedestrian journey through Dalecarlia five years ago.  The parsonage was a spacious building near the church, standing upon the brink of a lofty bank overlooking the outflow of the Dal.  The Domprost, a hale, stout old man, with something irresistibly hearty and cheering in his manner, gave us both his hands and drew us into the room, on seeing that we were strangers.  He then proceeded to read the letter.  “Ho!” he exclaimed, “to think that he has remembered me all this time!  And he has not forgotten that it was just midsummer when he was here!” Presently he went out, and soon returned with a basket in one hand and some plates in the other, which he placed before us and heaped with fine ripe cherries.  “Now it is autumn,” said he; “it is no longer midsummer, but we have a little of the summer’s fruit left.”  He presented us to his sister and daughter, and to two handsome young magisters, who assisted him in his parochial duties.

We walked in the garden, which was laid out with some taste along the brow of the hill.  A superb drooping birch, eighty feet in height, was the crowning glory of the place.  The birch is the characteristic tree of Sweden, as the fir is of Norway, the beech of Denmark, the oak of England and Germany, the chestnut of Italy, and the palm of Esrypt.  Of northern trees, there is none more graceful in outline, but in the cold, silvery hue of its foliage, summer can never find her best expression.  The parson had a neat little bowling-alley, in a grove of pine, on a projecting spur of the hill.  He did not disdain secular recreations; his religion was cheerful and jubilant; he had found something else in the Bible than the Lamentations of Jeremiah.  There are so many Christians who ­to judge from the settled expression of their faces ­suffer under their belief, that it is a comfort to find those who see nothing heretical in the fullest and freest enjoyment of life.  There was an apple-tree in the garden which was just bursting into blossoms for the second time.  I called the Domprost’s attention to it, remarking, in a line from Frithiof’s Saga: ­“Hosten bjuder sin thron til varen” (Autumn offers his throne to the spring).  “What!” he exclaimed in joyful surprise, “do you know Tegner?” and immediately continued the quotation.

There was no resisting the hospitable persuasions of the family; we were obliged to take supper and spend the evening with them.  The daughter and the two magisters sang for us all the characteristic songs of Wermeland and Dalecarlia which they could remember, and I was more than ever charmed with the wild, simple, original character of the native melodies of Sweden.  They are mostly in the minor key, and some of them might almost be called monotonous; yet it is monotony, or rather simplicity, in the notation, which sticks to the memory.  The longings, the regrets, the fidelity, and the tenderness of the people, find an echo in these airs, which have all the character of improvisations, and rekindle in the heart of the hearer the passions they were intended to relieve.

We at last took leave of the good old man and his friendly household.  The night was dark and rainy, and the magisters accompanied us to the inn.  In the morning it was raining dismally, ­a slow, cold, driving rain, which is the climax of bad weather.  We determined, however, to push onward as far as Fahlun, the capital of Dalecarlia, about four Swedish miles distant.  Our road was down the valley of the Dal Elv, which we crossed twice on floating bridges, through a very rich, beautiful, and thickly settled country.  The hills were here higher and bolder than in Westerdal, dark with forests of fir and pine, and swept south-eastward in long ranges, leaving a broad, open valley for the river to wander in.  This valley, from three to five miles in width, was almost entirely covered with enclosed fields, owing to which the road was barred with gates, and our progress was much delayed thereby.  The houses were neat and substantial, many of them with gardens and orchards attached, while the unusual number of the barns and granaries gave evidence of a more prosperous state of agriculture than we had seen since leaving the neighborhood of Carlstad.  We pressed forward in the rain and raw wind, and reached Fahlun towards evening, just in time to avoid a drenching storm.

Of the celebrated copper-mines of Fahlun, some of which have been worked for 600 years, we saw nothing.  We took their magnitude and richness for granted, on the strength of the immense heaps of dross through which we drove on approaching the town, and the desolate appearance of the surrounding country, whose vegetation has been for the most part destroyed by the fumes from the smelting works.  In our sore and sodden condition, we were in no humour to go sight seeing, and so sat comfortably by the stove, while the rain beat against the windows, and the darkness fell.  The next morning brought us a renewal of the same weather, but we set out bravely in our open cart, and jolted over the muddy roads with such perseverance, that we reached Hedemora at night.  The hills diminished in height as we proceeded southward, but the scenery retained its lovely pastoral character.  My most prominent recollection of the day’s travel, however, is of the number of gates our numb and blue-faced boy-postillions were obliged to jump down and open.

From Hedemora, a journey of two days through the provinces of Westeras and Uppland, brought us to Upsala.  After leaving Dalecarlia and crossing the Dal River for the fifth and last time, the country gradually sank into those long, slightly rolling plains, which we had traversed last winter, between Stockholm and Gefle.  Here villages were more frequent, but the houses had not the same air of thrift and comfort as in Dalecarlia.  The population also changed in character, the faces we now saw being less bright, cheerful, and kindly, and the forms less tall and strongly knit.

We had very fair accommodations, at all the post-stations along the road, and found the people everywhere honest and obliging.  Still, I missed the noble simplicity which I had admired so much in the natives of Westerdal, and on the frontier of Wermeland, ­the unaffected kindness of heart, which made me look upon every man as a friend.

The large town of Sala, where we spent a night, was filled with fugitives from Upsala, where the cholera was making great ravages.  The violence of the disease was over by the time we arrived; but the students, all of whom had left, had not yet returned, and the fine old place had a melancholy air.  The first thing we saw on approaching it, was a funeral.  Professor Bergfalk, who had remained at his post, and to whom I had letters, most kindly gave me an entire day of his time.  I saw the famous Codex argenteus, in the library, the original manuscript of Frithiof’s Saga, the journals of Swedenborg and Linnaeus, the Botanical Garden, and the tombs of Gustavus Vasa and John III. in the cathedral.  But most interesting of all was our drive to Old Upsala, where we climbed upon the mound of Odin, and drank mead out of the silver-mounted drinking horn, from which Bernadotte, Oscar, and the whole royal family of Sweden, are in the habit of drinking when they make a pilgrimage to the burial place of the Scandinavian gods.

A cold, pale, yellow light lay upon the landscape; the towers of Upsala Cathedral, and the massive front of the palace, rose dark against the sky, in the south-west; a chill autumnal wind blew over the plains, and the yellowing foliage of the birch drifted across the mysterious mounds, like those few golden leaves of poetry, which the modern bards of the North have cast upon the grave of the grand, muscular religion of the earlier race.  There was no melodious wailing in the wind, like that which proclaimed “Pan is dead!” through the groves of Greece and Ionia; but a cold rustling hiss, as if the serpent of Midgard were exulting over the ruin of Walhalla.  But in the stinging, aromatic flood of the amber-coloured mead, I drank to Odin, to Balder, and to Freja.

We reached Stockholm on the 22nd of September, in the midst of a furious gale, accompanied with heavy squalls of snow ­the same in which the Russian line-of-battle ship “Lefort,” foundered in the Gulf of Finland.  In the mild, calm, sunny, autumn days which followed, the beautiful city charmed us more than ever, and I felt half inclined to take back all I had said against the place, during the dismal weather of last spring.  The trees in the Djurgard and in the islands of Malar, were still in full foliage; the Dalecarlian boatwomen plied their crafts in the outer harbour; the little garden under the Norrbro was gay with music and lamps every evening; and the brief and jovial summer life of the Swedes, so near its close, clung to the flying sunshine, that not a moment might be suffered to pass by unenjoyed.

In another week we were standing on the deck of the Prussian steamer “Nagler,” threading the rocky archipelago between Stockholm and the open Baltic on our way to Stettin.  In leaving the North, after ten months of winter and summer wanderings, and with scarce a hope of returning again, I found myself repeating, over and over again, the farewell of Frithiof: ­

     “Farval, J fjallar,
       Der aran bor;
     J runohallar,
       For valdig Thor;
     J blaa sjoar,
       Jag kant sa val;
     J skar och oar,
       Farval, farval!”