On Viking Waters

On Viking Waters.

The Wind Swept Baltic

The Wind-Swept Baltic.

"I hope so," said the gentleman, nervously, "but one never knows. It can be quiet as a mill pond, and it can be terrible. In winter, I was once out twenty hours on this route contending with the ice and waves. Sometimes the steamers cannot cross at all."

His daughter confirmed these statements with a ghastly smile. I had supposed that all descendants of the Vikings were good sailors; but never have I seen more apprehension in a set of travelers than in the company which gathered in the dining-car that morning. With the exception of myself, all were Norwegians, Swedes, or Danes, but their chief topics of conversation were the probability of a good passage, the name and size of the boat, the weather and the wind. Their fears at last became infectious, and when I stepped on board the little steamer at Warnemiinde, and looked out on the wind-swept Baltic, I felt an inward sinking, as if I were standing in a rapidly descending elevator. To my dismay I saw that the experts of both sexes went immediately down two flights of stairs into a kind of submarine cabin, where they lay outstretched on sofas with their eyes closed, before the boat had left the pier. A wan-faced maid, haggard from sights of wretchedness, seemed, as I looked upon her from a distance, to be dealing cards to these recumbent passengers. In reality she was distributing a generous number of small, colored bowls. Fleeing from the sight of this game in which most of the players were sure to be losers, I wrapped myself in a cloak, and, crouching on the deck in the shelter of a friendly smokestack, tried the "mind-cure" with what mental energy the Baltic left in my possession. I will not describe that voyage. Suffice it to say, it was exactly like a two hours' transit of the English Channel in half a gale, but on a smaller boat, whose lack of shelter would have been horrible in case of rain. But all discomforts vanished, as if by magic, when we touched the territory of King Christian IX. True, there remained a ferry and a bridge to cross, before we reached the island of the capital; but these were insignificant. The disagreeable features of the voyage at once gave place to lovely meadows, where tethered cows (in some cases blanketed) grazed contentedly; to windmills turning grotesque summersaults, apparently for our special entertainment, or standing motionless with outstretched arms, as if soliciting a breeze; and at brief intervals to glimpses of the sea, whose white-capped waves ended a long perspective of still whiter fruit-trees in full bloom, which in the orchards rolled away in billows of foam, or individually, stood like solitary fountains sparkling in the sun.

A Welcome Port

A Welcome Port.

Soliciting A Breeze

Soliciting A Breeze.

A Blossoming Fru1t Tree

A Blossoming Fru1t-Tree.

Sometimes the little farm - houses and quaint, rustic churches were almost hidden by clouds of blossoms. Never have I seen fruit-trees flowering in such rich profusion as in Denmark in the early days of June; and these, together with laburnums drooping in soft showers of gold, the pink and white masses of the hawthorn, and the purple plumes of lilacs, impart to Danish landscapes at this season a tender beauty unsurpassed in the lands of the orange and myrtle, and make the recollection of a Scandinavian spring a dream of loveliness. Copenhagen has only about three hundred and seventy-five thousand inhabitants, yet it enjoys the distinction of being relatively the largest capital in the world, since it contains more than one-sixth of the whole Danish people. It must not be supposed, however, from this fact, that the country is very sparsely settled. The density of the population, more than one hundred and forty to the square mile, though small as compared to England, France and Germany, surpasses that of Sweden, Greece and Norway. The metropolis of Denmark cannot be called a handsome city architecturally; but its streets and sidewalks are almost immaculate, its bridges and canals are picturesque, and many of its public buildings have peculiarities that instantly attract attention and linger in the memory. One of these is the tower of the Exchange, composed of the twisted tails of four bronze dragons, the favorite symbol of the Vikings. Another is the Church of the Redeemer surrounded by a richly gilded outside staircase of three hun-dred and ninety-seven steps. In strolling through the town one sees a great variety of gables, dormer-windows and quaint carvings. The horses that one meets are usually noble animals, well-fed, and of great strength and size; but dogs are conspicuous by their absence, both as companions and assistants. This is indeed a striking contrast to canine life in a German city, where laboring men and women frequently draw their carts in company with harnessed dogs. This style of work may possibly degrade the human partner, but it elevates the dog. Many of these animals seem proud and happy in their labor, pulling away with all their might, and now and then looking up at their masters for approval. Such industrious dogs evidently regard with contempt the idle pets, which must be held in leash, and work almost as hard as they in tugging at the chains which bind them to their owners.