Letters Written During a Short Residence in Sweden, Norway, and Denmark

In a few days I am to set out for the western part of Norway, and then shall return by land to Gothenburg.  I cannot think of leaving this place without regret.  I speak of the place before the inhabitants, though there is a tenderness in their artless kindness which attaches me to them; but it is an attachment that inspires a regret very different from that I felt at leaving Hull in my way to Sweden.  The domestic happiness and good-humoured gaiety of the amiable family where I and my Frances were so hospitably received would have been sufficient to ensure the tenderest remembrance, without the recollection of the social evening to stimulate it, when good breeding gave dignity to sympathy and wit zest to reason.

Adieu!—I am just informed that my horse has been waiting this quarter of an hour.  I now venture to ride out alone.  The steeple serves as a landmark.  I once or twice lost my way, walking alone, without being able to inquire after a path; I was therefore obliged to make to the steeple, or windmill, over hedge and ditch.

Yours truly.

LETTER IX

I have already informed you that there are only two noblemen who have estates of any magnitude in Norway.  One of these has a house near Tonsberg, at which he has not resided for some years, having been at court, or on embassies.  He is now the Danish Ambassador in London.  The house is pleasantly situated, and the grounds about it fine; but their neglected appearance plainly tells that there is nobody at home.

A stupid kind of sadness, to my eye, always reigns in a huge habitation where only servants live to put cases on the furniture and open the windows.  I enter as I would into the tomb of the Capulets, to look at the family pictures that here frown in armour, or smile in ermine.  The mildew respects not the lordly robe, and the worm riots unchecked on the cheek of beauty.

There was nothing in the architecture of the building, or the form of the furniture, to detain me from the avenue where the aged pines stretched along majestically.  Time had given a greyish cast to their ever-green foliage; and they stood, like sires of the forest, sheltered on all sides by a rising progeny.  I had not ever seen so many oaks together in Norway as in these woods, nor such large aspens as here were agitated by the breeze, rendering the wind audible—nay musical; for melody seemed on the wing around me.  How different was the fresh odour that reanimated me in the avenue, from the damp chillness of the apartments; and as little did the gloomy thoughtfulness excited by the dusty hangings, and worm-eaten pictures, resemble the reveries inspired by the soothing melancholy of their shade.  In the winter, these august pines, towering above the snow, must relieve the eye beyond measure and give life to the white waste.

The continual recurrence of pine and fir groves in the day sometimes wearies the sight, but in the evening, nothing can be more picturesque, or, more properly speaking, better calculated to produce poetical images.  Passing through them, I have been struck with a mystic kind of reverence, and I did, as it were, homage to their venerable shadows.  Not nymphs, but philosophers, seemed to inhabit them—ever musing; I could scarcely conceive that they were without some consciousness of existence—without a calm enjoyment of the pleasure they diffused.

How often do my feelings produce ideas that remind me of the origin of many poetical fictions.  In solitude, the imagination bodies forth its conceptions unrestrained, and stops enraptured to adore the beings of its own creation.  These are moments of bliss; and the memory recalls them with delight.

But I have almost forgotten the matters of fact I meant to relate, respecting the counts.  They have the presentation of the livings on their estates, appoint the judges, and different civil officers, the Crown reserving to itself the privilege of sanctioning them.  But though they appoint, they cannot dismiss.  Their tenants also occupy their farms for life, and are obliged to obey any summons to work on the part he reserves for himself; but they are paid for their labour.  In short, I have seldom heard of any noblemen so innoxious.

Observing that the gardens round the count’s estate were better cultivated than any I had before seen, I was led to reflect on the advantages which naturally accrue from the feudal tenures.  The tenants of the count are obliged to work at a stated price, in his grounds and garden; and the instruction which they imperceptibly receive from the head gardener tends to render them useful, and makes them, in the common course of things, better husbandmen and gardeners on their own little farms.  Thus the great, who alone travel in this period of society, for the observation of manners and customs made by sailors is very confined, bring home improvement to promote their own comfort, which is gradually spread abroad amongst the people, till they are stimulated to think for themselves.

The bishops have not large revenues, and the priests are appointed by the king before they come to them to be ordained.  There is commonly some little farm annexed to the parsonage, and the inhabitants subscribe voluntarily, three times a year, in addition to the church fees, for the support of the clergyman.  The church lands were seized when Lutheranism was introduced, the desire of obtaining them being probably the real stimulus of reformation.  The tithes, which are never required in kind, are divided into three parts—one to the king, another to the incumbent, and the third to repair the dilapidations of the parsonage.  They do not amount to much.  And the stipend allowed to the different civil officers is also too small, scarcely deserving to be termed an independence; that of the custom-house officers is not sufficient to procure the necessaries of life—no wonder, then, if necessity leads them to knavery.  Much public virtue cannot be expected till every employment, putting perquisites out of the question, has a salary sufficient to reward industry;—whilst none are so great as to permit the possessor to remain idle.  It is this want of proportion between profit and labour which debases men, producing the sycophantic appellations of patron and client, and that pernicious esprit du corps, proverbially vicious.

The farmers are hospitable as well as independent.  Offering once to pay for some coffee I drank when taking shelter from the rain, I was asked, rather angrily, if a little coffee was worth paying for.  They smoke, and drink drams, but not so much as formerly.  Drunkenness, often the attendant disgrace of hospitality, will here, as well as everywhere else, give place to gallantry and refinement of manners; but the change will not be suddenly produced.

The people of every class are constant in their attendance at church; they are very fond of dancing, and the Sunday evenings in Norway, as in Catholic countries, are spent in exercises which exhilarate the spirits without vitiating the heart.  The rest of labour ought to be gay; and the gladness I have felt in France on a Sunday, or Decadi, which I caught from the faces around me, was a sentiment more truly religious than all the stupid stillness which the streets of London ever inspired where the Sabbath is so decorously observed.  I recollect, in the country parts of England, the churchwardens used to go out during the service to see if they could catch any luckless wight playing at bowls or skittles; yet what could be more harmless?  It would even, I think, be a great advantage to the English, if feats of activity (I do not include boxing matches) were encouraged on a Sunday, as it might stop the progress of Methodism, and of that fanatical spirit which appears to be gaining ground.  I was surprised when I visited Yorkshire, on my way to Sweden, to find that sullen narrowness of thinking had made such a progress since I was an inhabitant of the country.  I could hardly have supposed that sixteen or seventeen years could have produced such an alteration for the worse in the morals of a place—yes, I say morals; for observance of forms, and avoiding of practices, indifferent in themselves, often supply the place of that regular attention to duties which are so natural, that they seldom are vauntingly exercised, though they are worth all the precepts of the law and the prophets.  Besides, many of these deluded people, with the best meaning, actually lose their reason, and become miserable, the dread of damnation throwing them into a state which merits the term; and still more, in running after their preachers, expecting to promote their salvation, they disregard their welfare in this world, and neglect the interest and comfort of their families; so that, in proportion as they attain a reputation for piety, they become idle.

Aristocracy and fanaticism seem equally to be gaining ground in England, particularly in the place I have mentioned; I saw very little of either in Norway.  The people are regular in their attendance on public worship, but religion does not interfere with their employments.

As the farmers cut away the wood they clear the ground.  Every year, therefore, the country is becoming fitter to support the inhabitants.  Half a century ago the Dutch, I am told, only paid for the cutting down of the wood, and the farmers were glad to get rid of it without giving themselves any trouble.  At present they form a just estimate of its value; nay, I was surprised to find even firewood so dear when it appears to be in such plenty.  The destruction, or gradual reduction, of their forests will probably ameliorate the climate, and their manners will naturally improve in the same ratio as industry requires ingenuity.  It is very fortunate that men are a long time but just above the brute creation, or the greater part of the earth would never have been rendered habitable, because it is the patient labour of men, who are only seeking for a subsistence, which produces whatever embellishes existence, affording leisure for the cultivation of the arts and sciences that lift man so far above his first state.  I never, my friend, thought so deeply of the advantages obtained by human industry as since I have been in Norway.  The world requires, I see, the hand of man to perfect it, and as this task naturally unfolds the faculties he exercises, it is physically impossible that he should have remained in Rousseau’s golden age of stupidity.  And, considering the question of human happiness, where, oh where does it reside?  Has it taken up its abode with unconscious ignorance or with the high-wrought mind?  Is it the offspring of thoughtless animal spirits or the dye of fancy continually flitting round the expected pleasure?

The increasing population of the earth must necessarily tend to its improvement, as the means of existence are multiplied by invention.

You have probably made similar reflections in America, where the face of the country, I suppose, resembles the wilds of Norway.  I am delighted with the romantic views I daily contemplate, animated by the purest air; and I am interested by the simplicity of manners which reigns around me.  Still nothing so soon wearies out the feelings as unmarked simplicity.  I am therefore half convinced that I could not live very comfortably exiled from the countries where mankind are so much further advanced in knowledge, imperfect as it is, and unsatisfactory to the thinking mind.  Even now I begin to long to hear what you are doing in England and France.  My thoughts fly from this wilderness to the polished circles of the world, till recollecting its vices and follies, I bury myself in the woods, but find it necessary to emerge again, that I may not lose sight of the wisdom and virtue which exalts my nature.

What a long time it requires to know ourselves; and yet almost every one has more of this knowledge than he is willing to own, even to himself.  I cannot immediately determine whether I ought to rejoice at having turned over in this solitude a new page in the history of my own heart, though I may venture to assure you that a further acquaintance with mankind only tends to increase my respect for your judgment and esteem for your character.  Farewell!

LETTER X

I have once more, my friend, taken flight, for I left Tonsberg yesterday, but with an intention of returning in my way back to Sweden.

The road to Laurvig is very fine, and the country the best cultivated in Norway.  I never before admired the beech tree, and when I met stragglers here they pleased me still less.  Long and lank, they would have forced me to allow that the line of beauty requires some curves, if the stately pine, standing near, erect, throwing her vast arms around, had not looked beautiful in opposition to such narrow rules.

In these respects my very reason obliges me to permit my feelings to be my criterion.  Whatever excites emotion has charms for me, though I insist that the cultivation of the mind by warming, nay, almost creating the imagination, produces taste and an immense variety of sensations and emotions, partaking of the exquisite pleasure inspired by beauty and sublimity.  As I know of no end to them, the word infinite, so often misapplied, might on this occasion be introduced with something like propriety.

But I have rambled away again.  I intended to have remarked to you the effect produced by a grove of towering beech, the airy lightness of their foliage admitting a degree of sunshine, which, giving a transparency to the leaves, exhibited an appearance of freshness and elegance that I had never before remarked.  I thought of descriptions of Italian scenery.  But these evanescent graces seemed the effect of enchantment; and I imperceptibly breathed softly, lest I should destroy what was real, yet looked so like the creation of fancy.  Dryden’s fable of the flower and the leaf was not a more poetical reverie.

Adieu, however, to fancy, and to all the sentiments which ennoble our nature.  I arrived at Laurvig, and found myself in the midst of a group of lawyers of different descriptions.  My head turned round, my heart grew sick, as I regarded visages deformed by vice, and listened to accounts of chicanery that was continually embroiling the ignorant.  These locusts will probably diminish as the people become more enlightened.  In this period of social life the commonalty are always cunningly attentive to their own interest; but their faculties, confined to a few objects, are so narrowed, that they cannot discover it in the general good.  The profession of the law renders a set of men still shrewder and more selfish than the rest; and it is these men, whose wits have been sharpened by knavery, who here undermine morality, confounding right and wrong.

The Count of Bernstorff, who really appears to me, from all I can gather, to have the good of the people at heart, aware of this, has lately sent to the mayor of each district to name, according to the size of the place, four or six of the best-informed inhabitants, not men of the law, out of which the citizens were to elect two, who are to be termed mediators.  Their office is to endeavour to prevent litigious suits, and conciliate differences.  And no suit is to be commenced before the parties have discussed the dispute at their weekly meeting.  If a reconciliation should, in consequence, take place, it is to be registered, and the parties are not allowed to retract.

By these means ignorant people will be prevented from applying for advice to men who may justly be termed stirrers-up of strife.  They have for a long time, to use a significant vulgarism, set the people by the ears, and live by the spoil they caught up in the scramble.  There is some reason to hope that this regulation will diminish their number, and restrain their mischievous activity.  But till trials by jury are established, little justice can be expected in Norway.  Judges who cannot be bribed are often timid, and afraid of offending bold knaves, lest they should raise a set of hornets about themselves.  The fear of censure undermines all energy of character; and, labouring to be prudent, they lose sight of rectitude.  Besides, nothing is left to their conscience, or sagacity; they must be governed by evidence, though internally convinced that it is false.

There is a considerable iron manufactory at Laurvig for coarse work, and a lake near the town supplies the water necessary for working several mills belonging to it.

This establishment belongs to the Count of Laurvig.  Without a fortune and influence equal to his, such a work could not have been set afloat; personal fortunes are not yet sufficient to support such undertakings.  Nevertheless the inhabitants of the town speak of the size of his estate as an evil, because it obstructs commerce.  The occupiers of small farms are obliged to bring their wood to the neighbouring seaports to be shipped; but he, wishing to increase the value of his, will not allow it to be thus gradually cut down, which turns the trade into another channel.  Added to this, nature is against them, the bay being open and insecure.  I could not help smiling when I was informed that in a hard gale a vessel had been wrecked in the main street.  When there are such a number of excellent harbours on the coast, it is a pity that accident has made one of the largest towns grow up on a bad one.

The father of the present count was a distant relation of the family; he resided constantly in Denmark, and his son follows his example.  They have not been in possession of the estate many years; and their predecessor lived near the town, introducing a degree of profligacy of manners which has been ruinous to the inhabitants in every respect, their fortunes not being equal to the prevailing extravagance.

What little I have seen of the manners of the people does not please me so well as those of Tonsberg.  I am forewarned that I shall find them still more cunning and fraudulent as I advance towards the westward, in proportion as traffic takes place of agriculture, for their towns are built on naked rocks, the streets are narrow bridges, and the inhabitants are all seafaring men, or owners of ships, who keep shops.

The inn I was at in Laurvig this journey was not the same that I was at before.  It is a good one—the people civil, and the accommodations decent.  They seem to be better provided in Sweden; but in justice I ought to add that they charge more extravagantly.  My bill at Tonsberg was also much higher than I had paid in Sweden, and much higher than it ought to have been where provision is so cheap.  Indeed, they seem to consider foreigners as strangers whom they shall never see again, and may fairly pluck.  And the inhabitants of the western coast, isolated, as it were, regard those of the east almost as strangers.  Each town in that quarter seems to be a great family, suspicious of every other, allowing none to cheat them but themselves; and, right or wrong, they support one another in the face of justice.

On this journey I was fortunate enough to have one companion with more enlarged views than the generality of his countrymen, who spoke English tolerably.

I was informed that we might still advance a mile and a quarter in our cabrioles; afterwards there was no choice, but of a single horse and wretched path, or a boat, the usual mode of travelling.

We therefore sent our baggage forward in the boat, and followed rather slowly, for the road was rocky and sandy.  We passed, however, through several beech groves, which still delighted me by the freshness of their light green foliage, and the elegance of their assemblage, forming retreats to veil without obscuring the sun.

I was surprised, at approaching the water, to find a little cluster of houses pleasantly situated, and an excellent inn.  I could have wished to have remained there all night; but as the wind was fair, and the evening fine, I was afraid to trust to the wind—the uncertain wind of to-morrow.  We therefore left Helgeraac immediately with the declining sun.

Though we were in the open sea, we sailed more amongst the rocks and islands than in my passage from Stromstad; and they often forced very picturesque combinations.  Few of the high ridges were entirely bare; the seeds of some pines or firs had been wafted by the winds or waves, and they stood to brave the elements.

Sitting, then, in a little boat on the ocean, amidst strangers, with sorrow and care pressing hard on me—buffeting me about from clime to clime—I felt

“Like the lone shrub at random cast,That sighs and trembles at each blast!”

On some of the largest rocks there were actually groves, the retreat of foxes and hares, which, I suppose, had tripped over the ice during the winter, without thinking to regain the main land before the thaw.

Several of the islands were inhabited by pilots; and the Norwegian pilots are allowed to be the best in the world—perfectly acquainted with their coast, and ever at hand to observe the first signal or sail.  They pay a small tax to the king and to the regulating officer, and enjoy the fruit of their indefatigable industry.

One of the islands, called Virgin Land, is a flat, with some depth of earth, extending for half a Norwegian mile, with three farms on it, tolerably well cultivated.

On some of the bare rocks I saw straggling houses; they rose above the denomination of huts inhabited by fishermen.  My companions assured me that they were very comfortable dwellings, and that they have not only the necessaries, but even what might be reckoned the superfluities of life.  It was too late for me to go on shore, if you will allow me to give that name to shivering rocks, to ascertain the fact.

But rain coming on, and the night growing dark, the pilot declared that it would be dangerous for us to attempt to go to the place of our destination—East Rusoer—a Norwegian mile and a half further; and we determined to stop for the night at a little haven, some half dozen houses scattered under the curve of a rock.  Though it became darker and darker, our pilot avoided the blind rocks with great dexterity.

It was about ten o’clock when we arrived, and the old hostess quickly prepared me a comfortable bed—a little too soft or so, but I was weary; and opening the window to admit the sweetest of breezes to fan me to sleep, I sunk into the most luxurious rest: it was more than refreshing.  The hospitable sprites of the grots surely hovered round my pillow; and, if I awoke, it was to listen to the melodious whispering of the wind amongst them, or to feel the mild breath of morn.  Light slumbers produced dreams, where Paradise was before me.  My little cherub was again hiding her face in my bosom.  I heard her sweet cooing beat on my heart from the cliffs, and saw her tiny footsteps on the sands.  New-born hopes seemed, like the rainbow, to appear in the clouds of sorrow, faint, yet sufficient to amuse away despair.

Some refreshing but heavy showers have detained us; and here I am writing quite alone—something more than gay, for which I want a name.

I could almost fancy myself in Nootka Sound, or on some of the islands on the north-west coast of America.  We entered by a narrow pass through the rocks, which from this abode appear more romantic than you can well imagine; and seal-skins hanging at the door to dry add to the illusion.

It is indeed a corner of the world, but you would be surprised to see the cleanliness and comfort of the dwelling.  The shelves are not only shining with pewter and queen’s ware, but some articles in silver, more ponderous, it is true, than elegant.  The linen is good, as well as white.  All the females spin, and there is a loom in the kitchen.  A sort of individual taste appeared in the arrangement of the furniture (this is not the place for imitation) and a kindness in their desire to oblige.  How superior to the apish politeness of the towns! where the people, affecting to be well bred, fatigue with their endless ceremony.

The mistress is a widow, her daughter is married to a pilot, and has three cows.  They have a little patch of land at about the distance of two English miles, where they make hay for the winter, which they bring home in a boat.  They live here very cheap, getting money from the vessels which stress of weather, or other causes, bring into their harbour.  I suspect, by their furniture, that they smuggle a little.  I can now credit the account of the other houses, which I last night thought exaggerated.

I have been conversing with one of my companions respecting the laws and regulations of Norway.  He is a man within great portion of common sense and heart—yes, a warm heart.  This is not the first time I have remarked heart without sentiment; they are distinct.  The former depends on the rectitude of the feelings, on truth of sympathy; these characters have more tenderness than passion; the latter has a higher source—call it imagination, genius, or what you will, it is something very different.  I have been laughing with these simple worthy folk—to give you one of my half-score Danish words—and letting as much of my heart flow out in sympathy as they can take.  Adieu!  I must trip up the rocks.  The rain is ever.  Let me catch pleasure on the wing—I may be melancholy to-morrow.  Now all my nerves keep time with the melody of nature.  Ah! let me be happy whilst I can.  The tear starts as I think of it.  I must flee from thought, and find refuge from sorrow in a strong imagination—the only solace for a feeling heart.  Phantoms of bliss! ideal forms of excellence! again enclose me in your magic circle, and wipe clear from my remembrance the disappointments that reader the sympathy painful, which experience rather increases than damps, by giving the indulgence of feeling the sanction of reason.