Chapter VII: Part II: Aylmer Writes of Norway and Denmark 175 (6)

The audience room is of no inconsiderable size, and is better adapted for singing than for speaking. A fine organ in three sections, one in the front of the church, one in the rear, and one in the tower, whose notes seem to drop down as from heaven, render the musical services of unusual interest. If you should hear “Suomi’s Song” in this unique church, with its solemn and intensely patriotic cadences and words, you would better understand the love of the Finns for their country.

I have not space to tell you much of the literature of Finland, nor could I were my space unlimited, for much of the best of it has not been translated into English. As one has said: “A mere glance at a Finnish grammar, with its sixteen cases for the nouns and its host of grammatical complexities, gives one a humorous notion that it might have been perfected for the purpose of preventing any other nation from knowing anything about the beauties that it enshrines.”

However, some of the works of the beloved author Runeberg have been translated under the title _Ensign Stals Song_. I have already quoted from the _Kalevala_, the great epic of Finland, so admirably translated by Mr. Kirby and published in the “Everyman Library.” Of this poem Max Müller says: “It should have a place in the literature of the world, on the same shelf with the poems of Homer, the _Niebelungen_, and other great epics which the world will not willingly let die.”

After all, interesting as is the country, the architecture, the literature, and the social customs, the most interesting thing about Finland is the Finn himself. His sturdiness, his good sense, his progressive spirit, his willingness to try experiments, but always under the ægis of the Goddess of Law and Order; his healthy conservatism, his wise radicalism, his love of liberty, his hatred of tyranny—all combine to make one of the most interesting individuals on the face of the earth. I am glad that so many Finns have come to America, and that more are coming. They add the best possible element to our body politic. They do not herd together in the purlieus of our great cities, but for the most part spread themselves out over the limitless farmlands of the west, though some of them find employment in our manufacturing cities. Driven away from their home land by hard conditions of life or by the tyranny of their oppressors, three hundred thousand of them have found homes in the United States. Intelligent, law-abiding, liberty-loving, there is no better American than the Finnish American.

I do not know, Judicia, whether my poor letters have made you feel the charm of these sturdy, wholesome, homelike nations of the far north, whose fascination lies not so much in their art as in the varied beauties of the natural scenery and in the character of the people themselves, but, as for me, I must confess that I have fallen completely under the spell of Greater Scandinavia.

Faithfully yours,

PHILLIPS.

AYLMER WRITES OF NORWAY AND DENMARK

FIRST LETTER

Aylmer explains his purpose in the letters he will write; from
Germany to Denmark by ferry; the Danebrog; the wounded soldier;
Harald Bluetooth and other characters of the past; Roskilde;
the arrival in Copenhagen; certain of the Great Danes;
“Bil-Jonen Teatret” and “The Hurricane Girls.”

COPENHAGEN, December 3.

MY DEAR JUDICIA,

Here I am in “Merchants’ Harbor,” alias Kopmannaehafn, alias Axelhus, etc., but more anon of it and its names. First I must tell you about the trip here. Please don’t misunderstand my use of the word “trip.” I refuse to write you about “My Trip” as such. In other words, I am not going to personally conduct you by letter through Denmark and Norway. Thomas Cook and Thomas Bennett and James Currie and Mr. Baedeker, and many other good men, will do that for you by book. All I shall do is to keep my mind open to the pleasures and charms of these two countries, and when they cast their spell on me I shall try to make you feel it as I do. In other words, I am not going to be intimidated into having raptures over what the guide book stars, and, if I choose, I am going to like what it does not star. Furthermore, I am not going to take you on any set tour, for I don’t expect to take any such myself but I do expect to see a good many places in these closely united countries, and when anything appeals to me I shall describe it, in the hope that it may appeal equally to you.

Rather a long preamble to my first letter, isn’t it? But I trust it will make my idea plain and that you will not be disappointed if I don’t act in the capacity of courier. I said good-by to Germany and continental Europe yesterday noon at Warnemünde. Our train was trundled aboard the _Prinz Christian_, though I cannot state for which of Denmark’s many royal “Christians” it was named, and we had a two-hour sea voyage, during which it was evident from the pensive demeanor of some of my fellow passengers that seasickness was “not unknown,” as Baedeker would euphoniously say.

During this sea voyage we were supposed to take our noon meal, which I must now begin to call _middag_, and as I am by nature furnished with a good appetite I didn’t resist the invitation. Most of the ladies were “pensive” and remained on deck gasping, but the men, all wearing a look of conceited amusement, nonchalantly sought the dining cabin. I had heard much about the famous Danish _smörrebröd_, and I was keenly anticipating it, but I am sorry to say that _Prinz Christian_ was too much under foreign influence and did not offer the full glories of _smörrebröd_, which I found later here in Copenhagen. However, I will keep you for awhile in breathless suspense on that point.

Most of the people on the boat seemed to be Germans or Danes, and one couple opposite me at _middag_ I must describe. This “couple” consisted of a very big father and a very little son. The father was one of the greatest of the Great Danes, physically at least. I have hardly ever seen such a huge man. The son seemed to be ten or twelve years old, but he was as much below the average in size as his father was above it. The Great Dane seemed to think that strong, black coffee was the thing to make his infinitesimal son grow, and he made him drink three big cups of it. Father and son were the most stolid pair I have ever seen, but the little fellow was very miserable and wore a face as though he were taking medicine. He would gulp down all the coffee he could stand, then gasp for breath and look appealingly at his father, who stolidly urged him on. It was very pathetic, but at least I had the comfort of knowing that coffee could never ruin his nerves, for it was plain that he had none.

All this time I would not have yielded so calmly to the demands of the inner man if it had not been that there was nothing to see. _Prinz Christian_ was enveloped in a dense fog, and the limit of the view was a few yards of gray, tossing sea. But in spite of the fog, our noble captain steered straight for the ferry slip. A little jolting and bumping and clanking of chains, and we were on Danish soil.

By a miracle, which I think must have been performed largely for my benefit, the fog immediately rolled away. I refused then and I still refuse to believe those lugubrious writers who characterize Denmark’s winter as long and dreary and muddy. Certainly I couldn’t ask for finer weather than I have had during the thirty-six hours I have been in the country. I am open to conviction on that point, but the pessimist must produce something a good deal worse than the present weather before I will believe him.

I had not been on Danish soil two minutes before I saw the Danish flag, the world-famous _Danebrog_, waving over a schoolhouse. It was very striking, with its bold white cross on a vivid red background. There is a beautiful legend connected with the origin of this flag. It seems that “once upon a time” King Valdemar, being filled with holy zeal (possibly augmented by unholy greed), made an expedition against the heathen inhabitants of Esthonia. At first they submitted in crowds and were baptized. But when the novelty of being converted began to wear off, they turned against the evangelist king and fought furiously. “At this,” says the chronicle, “like Moses of old, Andres Sunesön (the archbishop) mounted the hill with his bishops and clerks, that they might lay the sword of prayer in the scales of battle; but when his arms dropped at last through weariness, his people began to fly. Then his brethren supported the old man’s hands, and as long as they were held up the Danes conquered.”

At this point a miracle occurred. The banner of the Danes had been lost in the fray, and to repair the loss “a red banner with the holy cross in white on it came floating gently down through the clouds.” King Valdemar gathered his men under this heavenly banner and had no further trouble in defeating the heathen (and gaining their desirable territory).

This king, by the way, was Valdemar den Seir, or the “Victorious.” Danish history fairly bristles with Valdemars, and even now there is a prince by that name.

The scenery all the way from Gjedser, the haven of the ferry from Warnemünde, smiled at us, at least until darkness erased the smile. The Danes have only one hill in their whole country, and that is far away in Jutland, but the flatness of the islands of Laaland and Zealand through which we pass does not make for monotony. Everywhere the landscape smiles cordially, warmly, invitingly. Really the landscape’s invitation was so genuine that I could hardly resist getting off at one of the little stations _en route_.

Most of the farmhouses are built of plaster with interlacing framework of wooden beams, which would make them Elizabethan, wouldn’t it, if they were a little more pretentious? The windmills are a cross between the ancient kind with four huge wings and the modern kind with many little spokes. They presented the appearance of Ferris wheels one third life size.

At the station of Kjöge a young soldier got on the train and I was shocked to note that he was badly wounded on the head, for he wore there a broad white bandage. I was pouring out my sympathy on the poor wounded soldier lad when he turned around, and it was not until then that I discovered that his “bandage” was a ridiculous blue and white cap, perched far on the off side of his head. I have since seen many of these “wounded” soldiers, and I can never quite control my amusement when I see a great strapping fellow with one of these foolish little caps fastened to the side of his head. In appearance they are like the caps that you find in the snapdragons at a children’s party.

About some other things Denmark seems very naïve. The smokestacks on all the engines have little bands of red and blue adorning them. Really they are cunning enough to play with. Also some of the railway cars are double-deckers, two-story affairs, while others are absolutely open like an electric car. They remind me of the pictures of the “first train in America—1820.”

Also the language is most delicious at times. A very frequent sign reads: _Ikke Spytte Paa Gulvet_. When you know that _ikke_ means “not” and that _gulvet_ means the “floor,” Chaucer will come to your aid for the rest. Pronounce that sign phonetically and see if you don’t feel as though you were stroking a kitten.

Copenhagen Exchange.]

One very historic town we passed through on the way from Gjedser to Copenhagen yesterday—ancient Roskilde. It was once an important city, far more so than the little village on the east coast of the island, which men called Kopmannaehafn. But the Reformation accomplished here, as in so many other cities of the north, its deadly work (of course deadly only from an architectural point of view), and Roskilde is now a busy, commonplace little town, with only the historic cathedral to remind us of the past. Old King Harald Bluetooth built a wooden church here a thousand years ago, and this cathedral was its immediate successor. It is the burial place of many of Denmark’s most famous kings and queens, among them Christian IV, who did perhaps more for the advancement of his country than any other king before or since, and Queen Margaret Valdemarsdatter, who was the only ruler strong enough to unite the three countries of Scandinavia into a single nation. Christian IX, the “father of half of Europe,” lies here, and many other Fredericks and Christians. Danish nobility is not clever at thinking up new names for itself. All who are not Valdemars are either Fredericks or Christians, with here and there a Canute or a Sweyn or a Gorm.

Right here I am tempted to go into a history of some of these old kings, whose names are so attractive, such as Gorm the Old, Canute the Great, Harald Bluetooth, and Sweyn Forkbeard, but Danish history is so closely interwoven with Norwegian that it is impossible to tell one without telling the other. For more than four hundred years they were actually united, and for nearly three hundred they were one and the same country. The language of the two countries has always been and is to-day practically identical. In view of this I think I will wait until I get to Norway and then give you a dissertation on the subject. In all this, Judicia, I am assuming that you don’t know any more about it than I did before I read it up. I hope you are not too much enraged at such an assumption.

It was as dark as Egypt or Pockonocket or any other place that is very, very dark when our train left Roskilde, but it was only a short journey to Copenhagen, and I enjoyed the pleasures of anticipation. A book I read on the train characterized Copenhagen as a dull, prosaic city, but being in an obstinate frame of mind I refused to be prejudiced against it. As the train drew into the huge new Vesterbro station, I felt a thrill of patriotic delight to note that the freight yard was illumined with red, white, and blue arc lights. Perhaps these colors were not very vivid or pronounced, but they were at least suggested, and I feel sure it was done in my honor.

There is much to tell about Copenhagen. It is not dull or prosaic, or, if it is, I like a dull, prosaic city. In this letter I will only describe my arrival in Denmark’s capital, and in a few days, when I have had a chance to see more, I will tell you more about it.

Outside the Vesterbro I found a perfect mob of “taxameters” (you know we have always spelled that word wrong in America). The poor old cabmen have been driven out of business by these swarms of gay, whizzing taxameters. Copenhagen is the breeding place of autos, I verily believe. We have a few in New York and Boston, and I’ve even seen them in other parts of the world, but I never saw what seemed so many in any other city. I dare not look up statistics for fear of having my impression shattered. Perhaps it is partly the audacity and gay colors of these autos that make them seem so omnipresent. They are purple or yellow or white, usually, and they own the city.

Copenhagen is a brilliantly lighted city. Really Broadway must extend itself if it would beat Copenhagen in this respect. There are all sorts of electric signs. In one window I saw a perfect imitation of fire. Paper streamers were blown upward by an electric fan and so lighted by red and orange electric lights that I had to look twice before I decided not to run for the nearest fire box. In another shop window an arctic blizzard raged furiously all the evening, and I suppose only abated when the shopkeeper went to bed. There are many brilliant electric advertisements, among which I am sorry to say certain whisky and cognac signs predominate. I fear there is more drunkenness in Denmark than in Sweden. At any rate a certain rather humorous writer says that the ferry from Helsingborg (Sweden) to Helsingör (Denmark) is much patronized by thirsty Swedes escaping from the Gothenburg system. However, I doubt not Phillips is enlarging upon Sweden’s stringent temperance laws as a claim for the superiority of that country, so I will lie low on that point.

To return to my arrival in Copenhagen. The taxameter whizzed me around in no time to Grand Hotel Jensen on Colbjörnsensgade, and I was greeted there, much to my surprise, by two very husky and very blonde lady porters, or should I call them “porterettes?” Well, these lady porters took my suitcase and even Jumbo up two flights of stairs to the room which was assigned me. You know something about Jumbo. It is almost as heavy as a trunk, and it takes a strong man to carry it far, but my blonde porterettes flew up the stairs with it, whistling as they went. Oh these Great Danes!

I took a short “twist” along Vesterbrogade and Frederiksberg Alle and back through a lot of other streets, whose names you are of course eager to know. The Danish and Norwegian language has the happy custom of attaching its definite or indefinite article to the end of its noun, and thus a hotel is a _hotellet_ and a theater is a _teatret_. One sign struck me as particularly interesting. It was no less than “Bil-Jonen Teatret,” which I took to mean the “Bill Jones Theater.” I was convinced of the correctness of my interpretation by seeing that the principal feature of the week’s program was “The Hurricane Girls from Broadway.” I haven’t yet seen the Hurricane Girls, and I doubt if I shall let them know that a fellow countryman is in the city.

It is getting late, even as the Danes reckon lateness, so I think I will say _god natt_.

As ever sincerely,

AYLMER.

SECOND LETTER

Copenhagen alias Axelhus; the origin of the city; the twin
towers of Fjenneslev; the Raadhus and its towers; Christian IV
and Brewer Jacobsen; Ströget; the fountains of Copenhagen; the
Tivoli Gardens; smörrebröd.

COPENHAGEN, January 12.

MY DEAR JUDICIA,

It is over a week since I wrote to you, and I have been sightseeing furiously ever since, but I have barely begun to see this interesting old town. It has rained all but two days of that time; but what of that? Personally, I like rain. Think how clean and wet it is. Why shouldn’t a city take a daily showerbath? Anyway, I like Copenhagen.

When I mailed my letter to you last week I went into a tobacco shop to buy a stamp, and also to inquire where the post office was, for I thought there might be something in the _poste restante_ for me. The shopkeeper sold me a stamp, but as for the post office, he said it wasn’t necessary to go there to mail my letter. I could drop it into one of the letter boxes which were everywhere. That remark in its naïveté reminds me of a sentence which I must quote from a book I have on Scandinavia. The author is very enthusiastic about the ship which carries him from England to Norway, and says: “The provision of the electric light in this noble ship is also a great luxury, enabling you to make light or darkness as you please in your berth, by merely touching a switch within easy reach.”

Think of it! Such luxury is almost effeminate, isn’t it? However, I don’t seem to be telling you much about this city, and there is so much to tell that I am in despair. The city’s original name was Axelhus, named for its original owner, Bishop Absalon, who found it a small fishing village and made it into a fortress against the heathen Wends. Perhaps Axelhus would not seem to bear a very close etymological connection with Absalon, but you see the bishop’s real name was Axel, and when he entered upon his ecclesiastical career he searched the Scriptures for a name which should sound something like “Axel.” As “Absalon” (the Danish form of “Absalom”) was the best he could find, he adopted that.

This Bishop Absalon and his brother Esbjörn Snare, who built and fortified Kallundberg on the opposite coast of Zealand, were the mainstays of Denmark eight centuries ago. The brothers were twins, and the sons of a famous warrior name Asker Ryg, who lived at Fjenneslev, in the middle of Zealand. One day Asker Ryg went to battle, leaving a church at Fjenneslev half built. He left word with his wife that should a son be born during his absence she was to have a tower built on this church, so that he might know the good news as soon as he should come in sight of the town. If a daughter should be born, no tower was to be built. Some time later Asker Ryg returned, and as he mounted the hill near Fjenneslev he saw a church with two towers. Axel and Esbjörn Snare were the cause, and they later proved worthy of their father’s rejoicing.

To-day Bishop Absalon continues to be the pride of the Copenhageners. In a square facing the island of Slotsholmen, which he made his strongest fortification, he sits in bronze, forever reining in his charger. He also guards the entrance to the new town hall, which of course I must call Raadhuset. I understand that an American architect (perhaps troubled with professional jealousy) says that if he put up a building like that in America his next step would be to pull it down. At any rate it cost the city six million _kronor_, more than a million and a half dollars, and is fitted out with a marvelous wealth of detail. On the walls of one of the stairways are two very interesting pictures representing the city in 1587 and 1611 respectively. It was about that time that the herring fisheries attracted so many merchants that the name of the town was changed from Axelhus to Kopmannaehafn, or “Merchants’ Haven.” Prominent in each of these pictures is a gallows on which two unfortunates are hanging. Probably they had stolen half a loaf of bread or committed some equally atrocious crime.

The Raadhus has a tower three hundred and forty feet in height, from which you get a fine view and a good idea of the city. On the wall, nearly up to the top, is a diagram, comparing this in height with various other high buildings and towers. Washington Monument and the Eiffel Tower are represented, and St. Peter’s, St. Paul’s, and St. Botolph’s in Boston, England, and the Chicago Masonic Temple, and a motley array of other high buildings. For some strange reason Woolworth’s skyscraper is omitted, as is also the Singer Building. Not one of New York’s skyscrapers is given a place in this hall of fame. I think I shall ask the mayor what he has against New York.

From the top of this tower you may see why Copenhagen is called the “City of Spires”—no, I should have spelled “spires” with a small “s,” as this was not the city where they held the diet. Christian IV is responsible for many of the spires which rise in all directions, for so many in fact that a certain author, in a perfectly vile pun, calls him an “aspiring” monarch. Of late years the old seventeenth-century Christian has had to divide the honors, in this particular, with Brewer Jacobsen. It is astounding to see how greatly the city has profited by the Carlsberg brewer’s generosity. Two fine collections of antiquities and of sculpture this philanthropist has given to the city, the Frederiksborg castle-museum, and the Ny-Glyptothek. Besides these he has made innumerable smaller gifts. Whenever a tower needs to be built or repaired, Brewer Jacobsen comes to the rescue and builds it or repairs it. Even now I understand he is contemplating the erection of a new spire on the famous Frue Kirke, to replace the one destroyed by a former bombardment of the city. At first it seemed rather ridiculous that so much of the city’s architectural splendor is due to beer, but I really believe the brewer has done much for the cause of temperance. His “beer” is something like ginger pop, and is scarcely more intoxicating than milk. It is so light that it is considered by many teetotalers as a temperance drink. If his temperance beer can compete with more harmful productions, he certainly is to be congratulated.

As for the buildings of Christian IV, their name is legion, for they are many. It is curious that so much of his making has lasted for three centuries or more, despite bombardments and innumerable fires. From the tower we see a curious spire formed of the interlacing tails of dragons. This was one of Christian IV’s towers. In other directions we see the spires of his summer palace, Rosenborg, and many other buildings which recall this great architect-king, among them Regenson, the college which he built for poor students; the Round Tower, which he built for the use of his astronomers, and his arsenal. He had the twin spires placed on the cathedral of Roskilde, and he built the famous castle of Frederiksborg, which his modern colleague in philanthropy, Brewer Jacobsen, has transformed into a museum. It is said that with his own hands he built the old tower on the Frue Kirke, and so reliable an authority as Hjalmar Boyesen says: “With level and square in his pocket, he walked about testing the soundness of the work of his carpenters, masons, and architects.”

He must have been a wonderful old king, even if he was not particularly modest about naming cities for himself. He founded the modern Christiania and named it for himself, and also Christianssund, in the south of Norway. Doesn’t he remind you of Alexander the Great in that respect? Boyesen says he was so democratic that he delighted to attend a party at the apothecary’s, where the jolly guests smashed all the windows; which makes me wonder whether, if he were alive to-day, he would join the jolly suffragettes of England in smashing windows.

You poor Judicia! I have kept you standing up in the Raadhus tower a long time, haven’t I? I hope you have not been cold, but if you have you can warm yourself by walking down some three hundred steps. From the Raadhus-Plads there is a series of streets leading to Kongens Nytorv, and here, between these two important squares, you will find _echt_ Copenhagen. It is lovingly called by the Danes _Ströget_, or the “Promenade.” Half of Copenhagen must go through here every day, though it is hardly wide enough for two teams to pass. Ströget is one of the few places in the city where electric cars are prohibited, and only an old-fashioned omnibus plies back and forth. I believe it would create a civil war if any company tried to desecrate this beloved, busy Ströget with an electric car line. You get jostled and elbowed all the way along, which would strike you as “not quite nice” in the Copenhageners, were it not that they expect to be equally jostled and elbowed. You see, people have elbowed their way through here for centuries, and that is part of the charm of it.

Midway in Ströget is a most interesting institution called Amagertorv, where for centuries the women of Amager have sold fruit and flowers. These women are the descendants of the Dutch people whom Christian II imported from Holland some four centuries ago. He fell in love with a Dutch girl whom he called _Dyveke_, or “Little Dove.” Later she became his morganatic wife, and the house which this very bad Christian built for her still stands on the corner of Nielsgade. In order that she might have congenial company he imported several hundred of her compatriots, and it is the descendants of these who still sell fruit and flowers in Amagertorv.

In Kongens Nytorv, the eastern terminus of Ströget, no less than thirteen streets converge. Here is situated, among other fine buildings, “Kongelige Teatret.” I refuse to interpret such obvious bits of the Danish tongue. It would be an insult to your intelligence. It was here that Holberg, the great dramatist, won his fame. I am sorry to say that his modern compatriot, Asta Nielsen, has won far more fame in certain circles. Perhaps you don’t know, Judicia, that Asta devotes her time and her histrionic talent entirely to moving pictures now. All over Italy and Germany I saw flaming advertisements of her as about to perform through the medium of moving pictures “The Dance of Death” and other equally thrilling dances. Oh, she is undoubtedly very popular with the patrons of the “movies,” but nevertheless I think I should prefer to be Holberg dead than Asta Nielsen alive.

In the middle of Kongens Nytorv is a well-known statue, which the Danes call _Hesten_ or the “Horse.” It represents Christian V riding down a writhing form, but whether that form represents abstract Envy or concrete Sweden no one seems to know. At any rate, Alexander the Great, Artemisia, Minerva, and Hercules are admiringly looking on, though how the Danes managed to corral all these people into Kongens Nytorv I don’t know. It is curious, too, that Hercules and Minerva have also found their way over to Slotsholmen, and there, together with Nemesis and Æsculapius, look up at Frederick VII.

Right here I must tell you something about Copenhagen’s many statues and fountains. In the Raadhus-Plads three of the weirdest dragons that were ever invented spout from their monstrous snouts three foolish little jets of water. The small boys used to play over these and stick corks in the dragons’ snouts, and so the clever authorities built a wide moat all around it, and now those boys have got to swim for it if they want to play practical jokes on the dragons. In Gammeltorv there is an old fountain which spouts golden apples on the king’s birthday and other national holidays. In another part of the city Gefion is represented plowing furiously with four bulls. This Gefion was an ancient goddess who was to have as much territory as she could plow up in a single night. By dint of great energy she plowed all the territory from Skaane, the southernmost province of Sweden, to the southernmost part of Zealand. The island of Zealand then broke off from Sweden and became the perpetual heritage of the Danes.

Another interesting monument represents an old soldier holding a little boy on his shoulder while the boy blows a horn. It is entitled _Den lille Hornblaeser_. Isn’t that great, and doesn’t the tender, affectionate, kitten-stroking tone get into your voice involuntarily when you say it? On the Holmens-Kanal, which, by the way, is a street, there is a statue to Niels Juel, who led the Danes to a great victory against the Swedes two and a half centuries ago. The statue is made from the guns of Ivar Hvitfeld’s frigate, _Danebrog_, which Ivar blew up in Kjöge Bay to save the rest of the fleet. It hardly seems fair that Ivar’s guns should have been used to build a statue to Niels, but such is the case.

The most unique statue I have ever seen stands in the museum, and formerly stood in “Gray Brothers’ Square.” It is called _Skamstötte_, or “Pillar of Shame,” and bears the inscription “To the eternal shame and disgrace of Corfitz Ulfeldt, the traitor.”

It would take more stationery than I have in stock to tell you of all the statues and fountains there are in this city. They must number well up into the hundreds. If anybody in Denmark says something clever, or if he is good-looking, or if he can write a readable book, or if he can cure somebody of appendicitis, they put up a monument to him.

The Danes are great lovers of royalty, and intensely loyal to their kings, though some of them have tried their subjects’ loyalty to the utmost. Danish kingship was in the past a “despotism tempered by sentiment,” as F. M. Butlin says. Some centuries ago, during the reign of Frederick V, it was said that “If the citizens of the capital had left off thrusting their heads out of their windows and shouting ‘Skaal Kong Christian,’ our absolute monarch would have felt unhappy.” I hope I shall not be arrested for _lèse majesté_ if I remark that their last king, Frederick VIII, was a very dissipated man. As you doubtless remember, he died mysteriously some time ago while sojourning incognito in Hamburg. However, their present king, Christian X, is an excellent monarch and much beloved by all. It is said that on hearing of his father’s death he immediately took the Holy Communion, as an indication of his desire to be a Christian in fact as well as in name.

This king and many of his relatives now live in the four palaces on Amalienborg-Plads. I had the luck to be in this _plads_ the other day at just twelve o’clock when the guard changed. It was a very pompous ceremony. The Danebrog was much in evidence, and the immense, black-plumed helmets of the soldiers added greatly to the solemnity of the occasion.

Perhaps you are weary enough of sightseeing by this time to come back with me and sample Danish _smörrebröd_ at Wivel’s restaurant, which is the most famous in the city. This is a sort of attachment to Tivoli, and while your mouth is watering for _smörrebröd_ I must describe Tivoli. It is considered the finest amusement park in Europe. It is not nearly as big as some others, but it is a model of its kind. The Copenhageners are not an idle people, but they love to amuse themselves. Amusement and relaxation, sheer and simple, Tivoli offers them. On holidays and anniversaries there is a most wonderful illumination.

In “Economics 1” at college I remember learning with great struggles some horrible fabrications called _Jevons’ Criteria_. Well, the author of that outrage, Professor Stanley Jevons himself, writes this about Tivoli in his “Essays on Social Reform”:

“The Tivoli pleasure gardens form the best possible model of popular recreation. Englishmen think of Denmark only as a very little nation. But though small in quantity Denmark shames us in quality.… But my Danish friends, when questioned on the subject [of their country’s superiority], attributed a high civilizing influence to the Thorvaldsen Museum and the Tivoli Gardens at Copenhagen. Of course our magistrates could not permit so demoralizing a spectacle as ballet-dancing in the open air, but I wish they could see Froeken Leontine and Fanny Carey dance their _pas de deux_. They would then learn that among a truly cultured and well-governed people dancing may be as chaste as it is a beautiful performance. Compared with our Crystal Palace or Alexandra Palace, Tivoli is a very minor affair; but civilization is not a question of magnitude, and in spite of its comparatively small size Tivoli is a model of good taste and decency, and indicates the way in which, under good regulations, all classes may be induced to mingle.”

Butlin, in quoting the same passage, says:

“It must not be supposed that Tivoli is a kind of garden ‘settlement,’ where classes mix with the conscious intention of civilizing and being civilized. We are rather inclined to suspect that Professor Jevons’ Danish friends were wily Danes who knew that civilizing influence was the right kind of bait with which to lure a social reformer within the Tivoli walls, and that the Professor, having enjoyed his evening there, as he evidently did, felt called upon to justify his enjoyment by an analysis of its civilizing influence.”

Well, Judicia, I have kept you waiting for that _smörrebröd_ for some time while I quoted the authorities on Tivoli. When the _smörrebröd_ finally arrives, it looks like the most vivid of patchwork quilts. It consists of various pieces of bread and butter “smeared” with all sorts of substances of all sorts of colors. There are slabs of ultramarine and ultraviolet, lake, mauve, puce, yellow ochre, carmine, buff, drab, gray-green, black, orange, scarlet, and everything else. In _smörrebröd_ you find all the colors of the rainbow, and many others which have not yet been catalogued. These colors, when analyzed, are found to consist of all sorts of meats, fish, hard-boiled eggs, and parti-colored salads. If you have a grain of progressive originality in you, you will like _smörrebröd_. _Smör_ actually means “butter,” but I am sure that our word “smear” is a lineal descendant, and I prefer to translate _smörrebröd_ into “smeared bread.”

The Danes are famous for their dairy products and particularly for their butter. Don’t you remember in far-off Sidon in Syria we had for dinner one day, as a special treat, a little can of Danish butter? While I am on the subject of food, let me tell you of one custom Copenhagen has which New York ought to copy. The fishermen bring in their fish, alive, in great tanks inside the ship, and when they reach the city these fish are transferred, still alive, to portable tanks, and peddlers then wheel them all over the city. The customer picks out his fish and the victim is harpooned and killed and delivered on the spot. There is no doubt that the Copenhageners have fresh fish.

I have scarcely begun to tell you about this city yet, but I think I will give you a rest. When I get time to write again I shall tell you something about some of Denmark’s celebrities, such as Thorvaldsen, and Hans Christian Andersen, and Hamlet. I am afraid this last gentleman is an invention of Saxo Grammaticus and Shakespeare, but he is interesting nevertheless. Alors, au revoir.

Yours as ever,

AYLMER.

THIRD LETTER

Written on the train between Helsingör and Christiania. A
little geography; who’s who in Denmark; Bertel Thorvaldsen and
the Thorvaldsen Museum; Hans Christian Andersen; his experience
with the “danseuse” of the Royal Theater; the final fulfillment
of the gypsy woman’s prophecy; Frederiksborg; some “cute”
tricks of Norse nobility in the past; Elsinore and “Prince
Amleth”; the “Norges Communicationer.”

_En route._ HELSINGÖR to CHRISTIANIA, December 24.

MY DEAR JUDICIA,

I am in Sweden now, and in spite of a troubled conscience I am enjoying my view from the car window. I suppose I ought not to allow myself to enjoy Sweden, as that is Phillips’ country, and honor should compel me to find fault with it. The country is really beautiful, with its long, rolling expanse of snow-covered land on one side and the Kattegat and Skager-Rack shaking hands on the other. However, I comfort myself and soothe my conscience by remembering that this part of Sweden is between Norway and Denmark, and with two such neighbors it could hardly be entirely without charm. The train was ferried across from Helsingör to Helsingborg, and we are now speeding along close to the Kattegat.

I am not forgetting that I left you in my last letter with the promise to tell you something about Denmark’s celebrities, but first I must treat you as a schoolgirl and tell you about the geography of this little country. Tell me, Judicia, how many principal islands are there in Denmark, and what are their names? What is Jutland? What is the difference between the Kattegat and the Skager-Rack? I am so sure that you don’t exactly know the answers to these abstruse problems (any more than I did two months ago) that I am going to take the liberty of telling you.

Jutland has earned its name, for it juts out into the North Sea and separates the Skager-Rack on the northwest from the Kattegat on the southeast, and it also looks like a sort of wedge thrust into the crevice between the two halves of the dividing Scandinavian peninsula. I am afraid the etymologist would say that it earned its name more from being the home of the Jutes than from its geographical propensity of “jutting.” It is a sandy peninsula, and boasts only one hill, which is made much of by the Danes. Schleswig-Holstein, as of course you know, should properly belong to Jutland and to the Danes. It is unmistakably a part of Denmark geographically and ethnographically, but the great and greedy Bismarck thought it would be a choice morsel to add to Germany, and, not being troubled by a very tender diplomatic conscience, he contrived to snatch it from poor little helpless Denmark. That was long ago, but the Danes still bristle at the name of Bismarck.

East of Jutland lie Denmark’s three large islands—Fyen, Zealand, and Lapland—and her countless smaller ones. If you will take the trouble to look at the map I suppose you can picture Denmark’s geography in your mind even more clearly than by reading my lucid and detailed description.

At this minute I am sure you are thinking of Bertel Thorvalsden, for he is sure to come first into your mind when you begin to inquire who’s who. You remember I quoted Professor Jevons as ranking the Thorvaldsen Museum even as high as Tivoli, as a civilizing influence. That is rather hard though on the museum, for this is really one of the world’s famous monuments. It stands in the very front rank of museums. Moreover it is unique in being the work of and the monument to one single man, the greatest artist-genius of the north. Really I am amazed at the greatness of Thorvaldsen. I have heard about him since I was in kindergarten, but I was struck anew by the greatness of his genius when I visited Copenhagen. He was the son of an Iceland ship’s carpenter, and the poorest of the poor. He was born at sea between Iceland and Copenhagen, and through all the early years of his life he assisted his father in his business. Those who know declare him the greatest classical sculptor of modern times.

The museum has the appearance of a huge tomb, and is anything but attractive from the outside. Inside is a mighty collection of the sculptor’s work. Many of the originals are here, and plaster models represent the rest. Among these models are two of his greatest works, the Lion of Lucerne, and the statue of Christ, which stands in the Frue Kirke. As I had seen the originals of both of these, I was not so thrilled by the plaster models. Inside, in a courtyard, is the sculptor’s grave, and it must be comforting to him to have his own beloved creations looking down upon his grave. Outside, all around the wall, are frescoes representing Thorvaldsen’s triumphant return from Rome in 1838. Hans Christian Andersen says of this home-coming: “It was a national festival; boats, decorated with flowers and flags, passed backward and forward between Langelinie and Trekoner. Joyous shouts were heard from the shore, where the people harnessed themselves to Thorvaldsen’s carriage and dragged it through Amalienborg to his dwelling.”

Thorvaldsen did not achieve this distinction, however, without a hard, discouraging, up-hill climb. He went to Rome to study first in 1796, and he labored so obscurely that even his friends lost faith in his talent. He could not afford to buy plaster of Paris, so he made from clay a model of Jason, which quickly fell to pieces. A second model failed to find a purchaser, and discouraged and heartbroken he prepared to sail for Denmark, when Thomas Hope, a wealthy English banker, justified nature in the bestowal of his surname by asking Thorvaldsen to reproduce in marble his statue of Jason. From this point the sculptor’s ambition revived, and in a few years he was hailed far and wide as the greatest living master of his profession.

Andersen’s autobiography contains many interesting bits about his friend Thorvaldsen. On his seventy-third birthday, and his last, the sculptor was greeted very early in the morning by a throng of friends who were celebrating the day by the use of “gongs, fire tongs, flasks, knives,” and other noisy implements. The old man threw on a dressing gown and slippers, and thus attired danced out of his bedroom and joined the hilarity. A few months later he died, and the news caused a whole nation to go into mourning.

But Hans Christian Andersen, the children’s poet, survived him. Andersen is to-day one of the best beloved writers in the world, as you will not hesitate to admit, Judicia. I am positive that Phillips can’t refer you to any Swedish author who is half as much loved, at least by people outside of his own land. One writer whose book I have recently read refers to this author as “H. C. Andersen.” Doesn’t that strike you as almost a sacrilege? Hans Christian Andersen is in a class by himself, and he ought to be called Hans Christian and not H. C. His fairy tales lose half their charm if we discover that the author is only H. C. Andersen. Hans Christian Andersen by any other name would not—well, he would not be as fragrant—I am getting involved here.

He was born in Odense, on the island of Fyen. Right here let me say that this town of Odense is not named for the much-advertised five-cent cigar, but for Odin, the same old god who gave us our name for the fourth day in the week. Hans was the son of a cobbler, and he spent the earliest years of his life, or parts of them, in a crib fashioned from a nobleman’s coffin, on which tatters of black cloth continued to hang. His mother wanted him to become a tailor, and he would perhaps have fulfilled her wish if a gypsy wise-woman had not chanced to cross his path and prophesy that Hans would some day become a great man. His parents believed the prophecy, and later their faith in the gypsy woman was justified.

Even as a boy Hans was in love with the drama. He could scrape up money enough to go to the theater only once a year, but the rest of the time he would get hold of the bill and imagine the whole play for himself. His introduction to dramatic society was most pathetic. An old bookseller in Odense gave him an introduction to a _danseuse_ at the Royal Theater at Copenhagen. Poor little Hans was frightened almost out of his wits when he met the lady dancer. He was “candidating,” as it were, and the meeting was very critical. He was so nervous that everything went wrong. His hat was too big for him, and, as he forgot to take it off, it fell over his ears. His new, confirmation shoes creaked, and he was forced to “ask his hostess’ permission to remove them, that he might be able to dance with more grace.” The peculiarity of this request, combined with the strange gestures he made, frightened the poor _danseuse_. She thought he was mad, and escaped under a pretext. Poor Hans, with tears in his eyes, and as utterly miserable as possible, hurried away. Yet he had inborn genius, and, like a city that is set on a hill, it could not be hid. A few years later he was received in his native town as a hero. The city was illuminated; the bishop met him at the station; the school children had a whole holiday; he received a congratulatory telegram from the king, and the man whom all Denmark delighted to honor says: “I felt as humble and small as if I stood before my God. It was as if every weakness, fault, and sin in thought, word, and deed was brought home to me.” As a matter of fact he had about as few faults and sins as it would be possible to have and still be human, and his one weakness was a too great sensitiveness.

He tells of how on one occasion he was anxious to obtain a traveling scholarship, and he also had a book of poems which he wished to present to the king, Frederick VI. His friends, being versed in the ways of the world, advised him to present his book at the same time he made his request for the scholarship. The same principle was of course involved as that which to-day implies that the giver of compliments has a request to follow. Well, such a proceeding seemed to the sensitive Hans as verging on dishonesty, and he was troubled to know what to do. He thus describes his interview with the king:

“I must have looked to the king extremely funny as I entered the room, for my heart was beating fast with anxiety. When the king came toward me in the quick way he had, and asked me what kind of a book I had brought him, I answered: ‘A cycle of poems, your Majesty.’ ‘Cycle, Cycle! what do you mean?’ Then I lost heart and said: ‘It is some verses on Denmark.’ He smiled. ‘Well, well, that is all right; thanks, thanks,’ and he bowed a dismissal. But I, who had not even begun my real errand, explained that I had much still to say, and then I told him about my studies, and how I had got through them. ‘That is very praiseworthy,’ said the king, and when I came to the point of my wish for a scholarship he answered, as they had told me he would: ‘Very well, then bring an application.’ ‘Yes, your Majesty,’ I burst out, all my self-consciousness gone, ‘I have it here with me, and it seems so dreadful to me that I should bring it with the book. I have been told to do so, as it is the custom, but I think it is horrid. I do hate it so.’ My eyes were full of tears. The good king laughed right out, nodded kindly, and took the application form.”

This bashful, timid Hans was really a wonderful man. He could take an old bottle or a piece of string or a barnyard hen and make a story out of it that the world, particularly the child’s world, will not willingly let die. Did you know that he invented the mission of the stork, and that every time _Life_ or _Judge_ gets off a joke in which a stork figures they have Hans Christian Andersen to thank for the idea?

Part of Andersen’s life was spent as a student at Elsinore or Helsingör, and so I think I will tear myself away from Copenhagen and go up to see the sights of northern Zealand. Before I tell you about Helsingör I must mention some of these castles of North Zealand. The island swarms with them, but the most interesting are Kronborg, Fredensborg, and Frederiksborg. In Kronborg, Holger Danske sits in confinement, and must remain there until the end of time. “He is clad in iron and steel, and rests his head upon his strong arms; his long beard hangs out over the marble table where it has grown fast. He sleeps and dreams in his dreams that he sees all that is happening above in Denmark. Every Christmas evening one of God’s angels comes to tell him that it is right what he has dreamt, and that he may sleep again, for no danger out of the ordinary is threatening Denmark.”

Fredensborg Castle, a few miles south, is the place where the clans gather for the annual Thanksgiving dinner. Perhaps they don’t call it by that name, and perhaps the gathering isn’t annual, but at least it is true that now and then the whole royal family of Denmark gathers together here in Fredensborg. As you know, the royal family of Denmark includes the King of Greece, Queen Alexandra, the Czarina of Russia, the King of Norway, and numerous princes and princesses. The name Fredensborg means “Castle of Peace” and the castle was built a century ago to commemorate the peace between Denmark and Sweden.

Frederiksborg Castle, Copenhagen.]