THE
LAND OF THOR.
BY
J. ROSS BROWNE,
AUTHOR OF
“YUSEF,” “CRUSOE’S ISLAND,” “AN AMERICAN FAMILY IN
GERMANY,” ETC.
Illustrated by the Author.
NEW YORK:
HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS,
FRANKLIN SQUARE.
1867.
By J. ROSS BROWNE.
AN AMERICAN FAMILY IN GERMANY. Illustrated by the Author. 12mo, Cloth, $2 00.
THE LAND OF THOR. Illustrated by the Author. 12mo, Cloth, $2 00.
CRUSOE’S ISLAND: A Ramble in the Footsteps of Alexander Selkirk. With Sketches of Adventure in California and Washoe. Illustrations. 12mo, Cloth. $1 75.
YUSEF; or, The Journey of the Frangi. A Crusade in the East. With Illustrations. 12mo, Cloth, $1 75.
Published by HARPER & BROTHERS, New York.
Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year one thousand eight hundred and sixty-seven, by Harper & Brothers, in the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the Southern District of New York.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER PAGE I. IMPRESSIONS OF ST. PETERSBURG 9 II. A PLEASANT EXCURSION 25 III. VIEWS ON THE MOSCOW RAILWAY 39 IV. MOSCOW 52 V. TEA-DRINKING 60 VI. THE PETERSKOI GARDENS 65 VII. THE “LITTLE WATER” 73 VIII. THE MARKETS OF MOSCOW 77 IX. THE NOSE REGIMENT 88 X. THE EMPEROR’S BEAR-HUNT 92 XI. RUSSIAN HUMOR 97 XII. A MYSTERIOUS ADVENTURE 104 XIII. THE DENOUEMENT 125 XIV. THE KREMLIN 134 XV. RUSSIAN MANNERS AND CUSTOMS 155 XVI. DESPOTISM versus SERFDOM 165 XVII. REFORM IN RUSSIA 170 XVIII. A BOND OF SYMPATHY 185 XIX. CIVILIZATION IN RUSSIA 193 XX. PASSAGE TO REVEL 209 XXI. REVEL AND HELSINGFORS 218 XXII. A BATHING SCENE 227 XXIII. ABO—FINLAND 236 XXIV. STOCKHOLM 248 XXV. WALKS ABOUT STOCKHOLMLIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
PAGE Laborers and Shipwrights 10 Russian and Finn 11 Cooper’s Shop and ResidenceTHE LAND OF THOR.
CHAPTER I.
IMPRESSIONS OF ST. PETERSBURG.
I landed at St. Petersburg with a knapsack on my back and a hundred dollars in my pocket. An extensive tour along the borders of the Arctic Circle was before me, and it was necessary I should husband my resources.
In my search for a cheap German gasthaus I walked nearly all over the city. My impressions were probably tinctured by the circumstances of my position, but it seemed to me I had never seen so strange a place.
LABORERS AND SHIPWRIGHTS.
RUSSIAN AND FINN.
The best streets of St. Petersburg resemble on an inferior scale the best parts of Paris, Berlin, and Vienna. Nothing in the architecture conveys any idea of national taste except the glittering cupolas of the churches, the showy colors of the houses, and the vast extent and ornamentation of the palaces. The general aspect of the city is that of immense level space. Built upon islands, cut up into various sections by the branches of the Neva, intersected by canals, destitute of eminent points of observation, the whole city has a scattered and incongruous effect—an incomprehensible remoteness about it, as if one might continually wander about without finding the centre. Some parts, of course, are better than others; some streets are indicative of wealth and luxury; but without a guide it is extremely difficult to determine whether there are not still finer buildings and quarters in the main part of the city—if you could only get at it. The eye wanders continually in search of heights and prominent objects. Even the Winter Palace, the Admiralty, and the Izaak Church lose much of their grandeur in the surrounding deserts of space from the absence of contrast with familiar and tangible objects. It is only by a careful examination in detail that one can become fully sensible of their extraordinary magnificence. Vast streets of almost interminable length, lined by insignificant two-story houses with green roofs and yellow walls; vast open squares or ploschads; palaces, public buildings, and churches, dwindled down to mere toy-work in the deserts of space intervening; countless throngs of citizens and carriages scarcely bigger than ants to the eye; broad sheets of water, dotted with steamers, brigs, barks, wood-barges and row-boats, still infinitesimal in the distance; long rows of trees, forming a foliage to some of the principal promenades, with glimpses of gardens and shrubbery at remote intervals; canals and dismal green swamps—not all at one sweep of the eye, but visible from time to time in the course of an afternoon’s ramble, are the most prominent characteristics of this wonderful city. A vague sense of loneliness impresses the traveler from a distant land—as if in his pilgrimage through foreign climes he had at length wandered into the midst of a strange and peculiar civilization—a boundless desert of wild-looking streets, a waste of colossal palaces, of gilded churches and glistening waters, all perpetually dwindling away before him in the infinity of space. He sees a people strange and unfamiliar in costume and expression; fierce, stern-looking officers, rigid in features, closely shaved, and dressed in glittering uniforms; grave, long-bearded priests, with square-topped black turbans, their flowing black drapery trailing in the dust; pale women richly and elegantly dressed, gliding unattended through mazes of the crowd; rough, half-savage serfs, in dirty pink shirts, loose trowsers, and big boots, bowing down before the shrines on the bridges and public places; the drosky drivers, with their long beards, small bell-shaped hats, long blue coats and fire-bucket boots, lying half asleep upon their rusty little vehicles awaiting a customer, or dashing away at a headlong pace over the rough cobble-paved streets, and so on of every class and kind. The traveler wanders about from place to place, gazing into the strange faces he meets, till the sense of loneliness becomes oppressive. An invisible but impassable barrier seems to stand between him and the moving multitude. He hears languages that fall without a meaning upon his ear; wonders at the soft inflections of the voices; vainly seeks some familiar look or word; thinks it strange that he alone should be cut off from all communion with the souls of men around him; and then wonders if they have souls like other people, and why there is no kindred expression in their faces—no visible consciousness of a common humanity. It is natural that every stranger in a strange city should experience this feeling to some extent, but I know of no place where it seems so strikingly the case as in St. Petersburg. Accustomed as I was to strange cities and strange languages, I never felt utterly lonely until I reached this great mart of commerce and civilization. The costly luxury of the palaces; the wild Tartaric glitter of the churches; the tropical luxuriance of the gardens; the brilliant equipages of the nobility; the display of military power; the strange and restless throngs forever moving through the haunts of business and pleasure; the uncouth costumes of the lower classes, and the wonderful commingling of sumptuous elegance and barbarous filth, visible in almost every thing, produced a singular feeling of mingled wonder and isolation—as if the solitary traveler were the only person in the world who was not permitted to comprehend the spirit and import of the scene, or take a part in the great drama of life in which all others seemed to be engaged. I do not know if plain, practical men are generally so easily impressed by external objects, but I must confess that when I trudged along the streets with my knapsack on my back, looking around in every direction for a gasthaus; when I spoke to people in my peculiar style of French and German, and received unintelligible answers in Russian; when I got lost among palaces and grand military establishments, instead of finding the gasthaus, and finally attracted the attention of the surly-looking guards, who were stationed about every where, by the anxious pertinacity with which I examined every building, a vague notion began to get possession of me that I was a sort of outlaw, and would sooner or later be seized and dragged before the Czar for daring to enter such a magnificent city in such an uncouth and unbecoming manner. When I cast my eyes up at the sign-boards, and read about grand fabrications and steam-companies, and walked