Zigzag Journeys in Northern Lands. The Rhine to the Arctic. A Summer Trip of the Zig-Zag Club Through Holland, Germany, Denmark, Norway, and Sweden

About the same time, Christian’s second son, George, was chosen King of Greece, and was crowned at Athens, and is still reigning there.

After three years had passed, the second daughter, Maria Dagmar, who, like her sister Alexandra, was a very lovely and attractive girl, was married to the Czarowitch Alexander of Russia, after having been betrothed to his elder brother Nicholas, who died. She is now Empress of Russia.

Somewhat later, the eldest son of the Danish king married the only daughter of Oscar II., King of Sweden and Norway, thus forming a new link of national friendship between the three Scandinavian nations.

It is thus quite possible that in the not distant future no less than four of King Christian’s children, who were brought up with little more expectation than that of living respectably and wedding into Danish noble families, will occupy thrones in Europe. It may happen that the two daughters will share two of the greatest of those thrones, – that one will be Queen of England; the other is Empress of Russia, – while the two sons will be respectively King of Denmark and King of Greece.

This great good fortune, in a worldly point of view, which has come to the Danish royal family, cannot certainly be attributed solely, or even mainly, to luck or chance. It has been, after all, chiefly its virtues which have won it such a high position in Europe. The good breeding and excellent character of the king’s children have won for them the prominence they now hold; for the daughters are as womanly and virtuous as they are physically attractive, and the sons are models of manly bearing and irreproachable habits.

THE STORY OF A KING WHO WAS PUT INTO A BAG

“His realm was once a cradle, and now it is a coffin,” might be said of the most powerful monarch that ever lived. Kings are but human, and they are pitiable objects indeed when they fall from their high estate into the power of their enemies. Never did a king present a more humiliating spectacle in his fall than Valdemar II., called the Conqueror.

Under the early reign of this king, the Golden Age seemed to have returned to Denmark. Never was a young monarch more prosperous or glorious in so narrow a kingdom.

His empire grew. He annexed Pomerania. He wrested from the German Empire all the territories in their possession north of the Elbe and Elde, and he finally became the master of Northern Germany.

He was a champion of the Church. A papal bull conceded to him the sovereignty of all the people he might convert, and he entered the field against the pagans of Esthonia, with an army of 60,000 men, and 1,400 ships! He baptized the conquered with kingly pomp and pride.

His reign was now most splendid. Denmark was supreme in Scandinavia and Northern Germany. The Pope revered the Danish power, and the world feared it.

But secret foes are often more dangerous than open enemies. The conquered princes of Germany hated him, and planned his downfall.

Among these was the Count-Duke of Schwerin. He pretended great respect and affection for Valdemar. He laid many snares for the king’s ruin, but they failed. He was called “Black Henry” in his own country on account of his dark face and evil nature, and Valdemar had been warned against him as a false friend.

But he was warm, obsequious, and fascinating to the king, and the king liked him.

In the spring of 1233 Valdemar invited him to hunt with him in the woods of Lyo.

“Tell the king I am disabled and cannot leave my couch,” said the artful count, who now thought of a way to accomplish his long-cherished purpose.

He left his couch at once, and sent his spies to shadow the king.

The king landed at Lyo with only a few attendants.

One night the king was sleeping in the woods of Lyo in a rude, unguarded tent. His son was by his side.

They were awaked from slumber by an assault from unknown foes, and a sense of suffocation.

What had happened? The king could not move his arms; his head seemed enveloped in cloth. He could not see; his voice was stifled. He felt himself carried away.

Black Henry had entered the tent with his confidants, and had put the King of the North and his son into two bags, and tied them up, and was now hurrying away with them to the river.

Black Henry laid his two captives in the bottom of a boat like two logs, and hoisted sail; and Valdemar, whose kingdom was now only a bag, was blown away towards the German coast.

He was thrown into prison, and there lived in darkness and neglect. The Pope ordered his release, but it was not heeded. The Danes tried to rescue him, but were defeated.

He was at last set free on the agreement that he should pay a large ransom. He returned to his kingdom, but found his territory reduced to its old narrow limits. His glory was gone. His empire had been the North; it had also been a bag; and at last it was a coffin. Poor old man! His last years were peaceful, and in them he served Denmark well.

CHAPTER XVI.

NORWAY

Stockholm. – Story of the Hero King. – Upsala. – Norway. – Christiania. – King Olaf. – Drontheim. – The Fisherman of Faroe

THE narrative of travel and history was continued by Mr. Beal.

“Strange is the evolution of cities.

“We are about to glance at Stockholm. Let us go back in imagination six hundred years.

“There are some rocky islands in the Baltic, at the foot of the northern peninsula. Sea birds wheel above them in the steel-gray air; they build their nests there. Storms sweep over these lonely islands; sunlight bursts upon them, and now and then a Viking’s ship finds a haven among them, and scares away the birds.

“Years pass. Fishermen build huts on the islands. Hunters come there. There come also the sea kings. A mixed, strange people.

“They build a village on the holms, or islets. They defend themselves with stockades, and they found on stocks, or beams, their strong houses. The growing town rises from stock holms; hence, Stockholm.

“The years pass, and the sea birds fly away. There are wings of gables where once were wings of birds. Stockholm becomes a fortress, and, as in the case of St. Petersburg in recent times, the sea desolation pulses with life and energy, and is transformed into a city. Churches, palaces, gardens, arise. Battles are fought, and here tread the feet of kings.

“The wonder grows. The birds scream far away now. The islands are spanned by bridges. Stockholm stands a splendid city, one of the crowns of earth.

“The city lies before us. Noble structures, villas, steeples, are seen among the green trees. The ships of many flags lie together like a town in the sea.

“It is sunset. The tops of the linden-trees are crowned with sunlight, the Gothic windows burn. A shadow falls from the gray sky. Afar fly the white sea-gulls. The shadow deepens. It is night. We are in Stockholm.

“Every nation has its hero.

“You have been told how that poor Louis le Debonnaire, the son of Charlemagne, preferred to win crowns for Christ’s kingdom rather than for his own. He lost his own kingdom; but the missionaries he sent forth, though at first not successful, were the means of giving Christianity to all the nations of the North.

THE HERO KING OF SWEDEN

There was born in Stockholm, in 1594, an heir to the Swedish throne, whose influence was destined to be felt throughout the world and to very distant periods of time. The child was named Gustavus Adolphus.

He was educated for the kingdom. At the age of ten he was made to attend the sittings of the Diet and the councils of state. In boyhood he was able to discuss state affairs in Latin, and in youth he was able to speak nearly all European tongues.

He was schooled in the arts of war as well as peace. In early manhood he entered Russia at the head of an army, and compelled the Czar to sue for peace.

After the war the young king gave his whole heart to the development of the industries and institutions of his kingdom. He founded schools, assisted churches, and everywhere multiplied influences for good. Never did a monarch devote himself more earnestly to the improvement of his people, or accomplish more in a short time. His influence for good has ever lived in Sweden, and is felt strongly to-day.

He was an ardent Protestant. The Catholic powers of the South and the Protestant powers of the North had become very hostile, and war between them seemed impending. In this crisis the Protestant leaders looked to Gustavus Adolphus as the champion of their cause.

In 1630 Gustavus called a Diet in Stockholm, and reported the danger that was threatening the Protestant states of Germany, and which would involve Sweden unless checked. He announced that he had decided to espouse the cause of the German princes, and to enter the field. He took his little daughter in his arms, and commended her to the Diet as the heir to the crown.

He landed in Germany on Midsummer’s day in 1630. He had an army of fifteen thousand men. It was a small army indeed for so perilous an undertaking. “Cum Deo et victricibus armis is my motto,” he declared, and trusting in this watchword he advanced on his dangerous course.

The Imperialists, as the foes of the Reformed Faith were called, were led by Wallenstein. They were greatly superior in numbers to the Swedes and their allies.

At Lutzen the great battle of Protestantism was fought, Nov. 6, 1632.

“I truly believe that the Lord has given my enemies into my hands,” said Gustavus, just before the battle.

The morning dawned gray and gloomy. A heavy mist hung over the two armies.

The Swedish and German army united in singing Luther’s hymn, —

“Ein’ feste Burg ist unser Gott.”

Then Gustavus said, —

“Let us sing ‘Christ our Salvation.’”

“Be not dismayed, thou little flock,Although the foe’s fierce battle-shock,Loud on all sides, assail thee.Though o’er thy fall they laugh secure,Their triumph cannot long endure;Let not thy courage fail thee.“Thy cause is God’s, – go at his call,And to his hand commit thy all;Fear thou no ill impending:His Gideon shall arise for thee,God’s Word and people manfully,In God’s own time, defending.“Our hope is sure in Jesus’ might;Against themselves the godless fight,Themselves, not us, distressing;Shame and contempt their lot shall be;God is with us, with him are we:To us belongs his blessing.”

Clad in his overcoat without armor, he mounted his horse and rode along the lines.

“The enemy is within your reach,” he said to the allies.

“Swedes,” he said to his old army, “if you fight as I expect of you, you shall have your reward; if not, not a bone of your bodies will ever return to Sweden.”

To the Germans he said, —

“If you fail me to-day, your religion, your freedom, and your welfare in this world and in the next are lost.”

He prophesied to the Germans, —

“Trust in God; believe that with his help you may this day gain a victory which shall profit your latest descendants.”

He waved his drawn sword over his head and advanced.

The Swedes and Finns responded with cheers and the clash of arms.

“Jesus, Jesus, let us fight this day for thy name,” he exclaimed.

The whole army was now in motion, the king leading amid the darkness and gloom of the mist.

The battle opened with an immediate success for the Swedes. But in the moment of victory the king was wounded and fell from his horse.

“The king is killed!”

The report was like a death-knell to the Swedes, but only for a moment.

The king’s horse with an empty saddle was seen galloping wildly down the road.

“Lead us again to the attack,” the leaders demanded of George of Saxe-Weimar.

The spirit of the dead king seemed to infuse the little army with more than human valor. The men fought as though they were resolved to give their lives to their cause. The memory of the king’s words in the morning thrilled them. Nothing could stand before such heroism. Pappenheim fell. The Imperialists were routed. The Swedes at night, victorious, possessed the field, but they had lost the bravest of kings, and one of the most unselfish of rulers.

“We left Stockholm for Upsala, the student city. The paddles of the boat brushed along the waters of the Mälar; the old city retreated from view, and landscape after landscape of variegated beauty rose before us.

“The Mälar Lake is margined with dark pines, bright meadows and fields, light green linden-trees, gray rocks, and shadowy woods. Here and there are red houses among the lindens.

“We pass flat-bottomed boats, that dance about in the current made by the steamer.

“The hills of Upsala come into view. The University next appears, like a palace; then a palace indeed, red like the houses; then the gabled town.

“We went to the church, and were conducted into a vaulted chamber where were crowns and sceptres taken from the coffins of dead kings. We wandered along the aisle after leaving the treasure-room of the dead, and gazed on cold tombs and dusty frescos.

“Here sleeps Gustavus Vasa.

“In the centre aisle, under a flat stone, lies the great botanist, Linnæus.

“We visited the garden of Linnæus, or the place where it once bore the blossoms and fruits of the world. Nettles were there; the orangeries were gone; the winter garden had disappeared. The place wore a desolate look; the master had departed, leaving little there but the ghost of a great memory.

“We left Stockholm for Norway.

“We were landed from the steamer at Christiansand. This sea-port is a rude town, and except from the wild, strange expression of both land and sea, which affects one gloomily, yet with a kind of poetic sadness, revealed little to interest us or to remember. There was a Lazaretto, or pest-house, on a high rock, from which we felt sure that no disease would ever be communicated.

“The scenery of Norway is unlike any other in the world. Take the map and scan the western coast. It looks like a piece of lace-work, so numerous are the inlets or fiords.

“These fiords are many of them surrounded by headlands as high as mountain walls. They are little havens, with calm water of wondrous beauty and with walls that seem to reach to the sky. On a level spot in the mountainous formation, a hamlet or a little church is sometimes seen, one of the most picturesque objects with its setting in the world.”

[The artist can give one a better view of these fiords than any description, and he has faithfully done it here.]

“The mountains and valleys of Norway are unlike any other. Summer finds them as winter leaves them. Great hills are worn into cones by the snow and ice. The cataracts are numerous and wonderful. The water scenery has no equal for romantic beauty and wildness.

“A twelve hours’ farther sail brought us to Christiania. It is situated in a lovely valley on the northern side of Christiania Fiord. It has a population of about eighty thousand. Here are the Royal Palace and University.

“All of the cities of the North have great schools and libraries. The University at Christiania has nearly a thousand students, and a library of one hundred and fifty thousand books.

“The port is covered with ice during some four months in the year. During the mild seasons some two thousand vessels yearly enter the harbor.

“Olaf, the Saint, the King of ‘Norroway,’ who preached the Gospel ‘with his sword,’ is the hero of the western coast. I might relate many wonderful stories of him, but I would advise you to read ‘The Saga of King Olaf,’ by Longfellow, in the ‘Wayside Inn.’

“His capital was Drontheim, far up among the northern regions, where the sun shines all night in summer, and where the winters are wild and dreary, cold and long. It is a quaint old town. Summer tourists to the western coast of Norway sometimes visit it. Its cathedral was founded by Olaf, and is nearly a thousand years old.

“And now in ten nights’ entertainments, you have taken hasty views of Germany and the old Kingdom of Charlemagne. Narratives of travel and history have been mingled with strange traditions and tales of superstition; all have combined to give pictures of the ages that are faded and gone, and that civilization can never wish to recall. Men are reaching higher levels in religion, knowledge, science, and the arts. Kingcraft is giving way to the governing intelligence of the people, and superstition to the simple doctrines of the Sermon on the Mount and to the experiences of a spiritual life. The age of castles and fortresses, like churches, is gone. The age of peace and good-will comes with the fuller light of the Gospel and intelligence. The pomps of cathedrals will never be renewed. The Church is coming to teach that character is everything, and that the soul is the temple of God’s spiritual indwelling.”

The tenth evening was closed by Charlie Leland. He read an original poem, suggested by an incident related to him by a fisherman at Stockholm.

THE FISHERMAN OF FAROEWhen life was young, my white sail hungO’er ocean’s crystal floor;In the fiords alee was the dreaming sea,And the deep sea waves before.The Faroe fishermen used to callFrom the pier’s extremest post:“Strike out, my boy, from the ocean wall;There’s danger near the coast.Beware of the drifting dunesIn the nights of the watery moons,Beware of the Maelstrom’s tideWhen the western wind blows free,Of the rocks of the Skagerrack,Of the shoals of the Cattegat;Strike out for the open sea,Strike out for the open sea!”“O pilot! pilot! every rockYou know in the ocean wall.”“No, no, my boy, I only knowWhere there are no rocks at all,Where there are no rocks at all, my boy,And there no ship is lost.Strike out, strike out for the open sea;There’s danger near the coast.Beware, I say, of the dunesIn the nights of the watery moons,Beware of the Maelstrom’s tideWhen the western wind blows free,Of the rocks of the Skagerrack,Of the shoals of the Cattegat;Strike out for the open sea,Strike out for the open sea!”Low sunk the trees in the sun-laved seas,And the flash of peaking oarsGrew faint and dim on the sheeny rimOf the harbor-dented shores.And far Faroe in the light lay low,Where rode like a dauntless hostThe white-plumed waves o’er the green sea gravesOf the rock-imperilled coast.And I thought of the drifting dunesIn the nights of the watery moons,And I thought of the Maelstrom’s tideWhen the western wind blew free,Of the rocks of the Skagerrack,Of the shoals of the Cattegat,And I steered for the open sea,I steered for the open sea.To far Faroe I sailed away,When bright the summer burned,And I told in the old Norse kirk one dayThe lesson my heart had learned.Then the grizzly landvogt said to me:“Of strength we may not boast;But ever in life for you and meThere’s danger near the coast.Then think of the drifting dunesIn the nights of the watery moons,And think of the Maelstrom’s tideWhen the western wind blows free,Of the rocks of the Skagerrack,Of the shoals of the Cattegat;Strike out for the open sea,Strike out for the open sea!”“O landvogt, well thou knowest the waysWherein my feet may fall.”“Oh, no, my boy, I only knowThe ways that are safe to all,The ways that are safe to all, my boy,And there no soul is lost.Strike out in life for the open sea,There’s danger near the coast.Then think of the drifting dunesIn the nights of the watery moons,And think of the Maelstrom’s tideWhen the western wind blows free,Of the rocks of the Skagerrack,Of the shoals of the Cattegat;Strike out for the open sea,Strike out for the open sea!“False lights, false lights, are near the land,The reef the land wave hides,And the ship goes down in sight of the townThat safe the deep sea rides.’Tis those who steer the old life nearTemptation suffer most;The way is plain to life’s open main,There’s danger near the coast.Beware of the drifting dunesIn the nights of the watery moons,Beware of the Maelstrom’s tideWhen the western wind blows free,Of the rocks of the Skagerrack,Of the shoals of the Cattegat;Strike out for the open sea,Strike out for the open sea!”And so on life’s sea I sailed away,Where free the waters flow,As I sailed from the old home port that dayFor the islands of far Faroe.And when I steer temptation near,The pilot, like a ghost,On the wave-rocked pier I seem to hear:“There’s danger near the coast.Beware of the drifting dunesIn the nights of the watery moons,Beware of the Maelstrom’s tideWhen the western wind blows free,Of the rocks of the Skagerrack,Of the shoals of the Cattegat;Strike out for the open sea,Strike out for the open sea!”

CHAPTER XVII.

THE GREATER RHINE

The Return Homeward. – On the Terrace, – Quebec

THE Class made their return voyage by the way of Liverpool to Quebec, one of the shortest of the ocean ferries, and one of the most delightful in midsummer and early autumn, when the Atlantic is usually calm, and the icebergs have melted away.

As the steamer was passing down the Mersey, and Liverpool with her thousands of ships, and Birkenhead with its airy cottages, were disappearing from view, Mr. Beal remarked to the boys, —

“We shall return through the Straits, and so shall be probably only four and a half days out of sight of land.”

“I did not suppose it was possible to cross the Atlantic from land to land in four days and a half,” said Charlie Leland.

“We shall stop to-morrow at Moville, the port of Londonderry,” said Mr. Beal. “A few hours after we leave we shall sink the Irish coast. Make notes of the time you lose sight of the light-houses of Ireland, and of the time when you first see Labrador, and compare the dates towards the end of the voyage,” said Mr. Beal.

Past the green hills of Ireland the steamer glided along, among ships so numerous that the sea seemed a moving city, or the suburbs of a moving city; for Liverpool itself, with her seven miles of wonderful docks, is a city of the sea.

The Giant’s Causeway, the sunny port of Moville, the rocky islands with their white light-houses, were passed, and at one o’clock on Monday morning the last light dropped into the calm sea, fading like a star.

The Atlantic was perfectly calm – as “calm as a mill-pond” as the expression is, during the tranquillity of the ocean that follows the settled summer weather. The steamer was heavily loaded, and had little apparent motion; bright days and bright nights succeeded each other. A flock of gulls followed the steamer far out to sea. For three days no object of interest was seen on the level ocean except the occasional spouting of a whale.

The sky was a glory in the long twilights. The sun when half set made the distant ocean seem like an island of fire, and the light clouds after sunset like hazes drifting away from a Paradisic sphere.

On Thursday morning the shadowy coast of Labrador appeared. The voyage seemed now virtually ended after four days from land to land. There were three days more, but the steamer would be in calm water, with land constantly in view.

The Straits of Belle Isle, some six miles wide, were as calm as had been the ocean. The Gulf of St. Lawrence – the fishing field of the world – was like a surface of glass. The sunrise and moonrise were now magnificent; the sunsets brought scenes to view as wonderful as the skies of Italy; gigantic mountains rose; clustering sails broke the monotonous expanse of the glassy sea, and now and then appeared an Indian canoe such as Jacques Cartier and the early explorers saw nearly three centuries ago.

The wild shores of Anticosti rose and sunk.

“We are now in the Greater Rhine,” said Mr. Beal to the boys, – “the Rhine of the West.”

“How is that?” asked Charlie Leland. “Is not the Hudson the American Rhine?”

“It is the New York Rhine,” said Mr. Beal, smiling. “The river St. Lawrence is, by right of analogy, the American Rhine, and so deserves to be called.”

“Which is the larger river?” asked Charlie.

“The larger?”

“Yes, the longer?”

“It does not seem possible that an American schoolboy could seriously ask such a question! I am sometimes astonished, however, at the ignorance that older people of intelligence show in regard to our river of which all Americans should be proud.

“Ours is the Greater Rhine. The German Rhine is less than a thousand miles long; our Rhine is nearly twenty-five hundred miles long: the German Rhine can at almost any point be easily spanned with bridges; our Rhine defies bridges, except in its narrowest boundaries. The great inland seas of Superior, Huron, Michigan, Ontario, and Erie require a width of miles for their pathway to the ocean. The Rhine falls cannot be compared with Niagara, nor the scattered islands of the old river with the Lake of a Thousand Islands of the new. Quebec is as beautiful as Coblentz, and Montreal is in its situation one of the loveliest cities of the world.