Part 13

The poem then proceeds to say that Elijah shall be wounded, and recounts the many signs and wonders that shall occur before the Muspell-doom, the Judgment Day.

Volos, or Veles, was another solar deity. It has been held that the Greek Helios appears in this name, while others have identified him with Odin, or Woden, pronounced with an epenthetic _l_, and with other changes, but the etymology seems far-fetched.

He was the special protector of cattle. The name survives to Christian times in St. Blasius. Mr. Ralston says: “In Christian times the honors originally paid to Volos were transferred to his namesake, St. Vlas, or Vlasy (Blasius), who was a shepherd by profession. To him the peasants throughout Russia pray for the safety of their flocks and herds, and on the day consecrated to him (February 11) they drive their cows to church, and have them secured against misfortune by prayer and the sprinkling of holy water.... Afanasief considers that the name was originally one of the epithets of Perun, who, as the cloud-compeller—the clouds being the cattle of the sky—was the guardian of the heavenly herds, and that the epithet ultimately became regarded as the name of a distinct deity.”

By the names of Volus and Perun the Russians used to swear and confirm their sayings and treaties by oath.

Stribog was the wind-god. According to Russian ideas the four winds are the sons of one mother, and in the Old-Russian Igor song the wind is addressed as Sir. These winds are called Stribog’s grandsons. So in India, the winds are regarded as sentient beings; thus in the Nalopákhyánam:

“Thus adjured, a solemn witness, spake the winds from out the air.

* * * * *

Even as thus the wind was speaking, flowers fell showering all around, And the gods’ sweet music sounded on the zephyr light.”

Byelbog and Chernobog, the representatives of light and darkness, are of antagonistic nature—the warring principles of good and evil. Byelbog is the white, shining god, the bringer of the day, the benignant Phœbus, while Chernobog, a black god, belongs to the diabolical order.

The goddess of spring and love was Lada—corresponding closely to Freya in the Scandinavian traditions. Lovers and the newly married addressed their prayers to her, praising her name in songs. Lado, the Slavonic counterpart of Norse Freyr, has many of the same attributes as the goddess Lada, to whom the same adoration and praise were offered. Mr. Ralston says that “one Lithuanian song distinctly couples the name Lado with that of the sun. A shepherd sings, ‘I fear thee not O wolf! The god with the sunny curls will not let thee approach. Lado, O Sun-Lado!’ In one of the old chronicles Lado is mentioned as the god of marriage, of mirth, of pleasure, and of general happiness, to whom those about to marry offered sacrifices in order to secure a fortunate union.”

Kupàlo was the god of harvests, and before the harvest—on the 23d of June—sacrifices were offered to him. Young people lighted fires and danced around them in the evening, adorned with garlands of flowers, singing harvest ditties to the god. This custom still survives in the fires kindled on St. John’s eve, through which sometimes the people jump and drive their cattle. The Poles and other Slavonians, especially in remote districts, keep up many of their ancient heathen rites.

The 24th of December was sacred to the goddess Kolyada, a solar deity, to whom songs were sung in celebration of the renewed life of the sun after the winter solstice “when the gloom of the long winter nights begins to give way to the lengthening day.” This festival became blended with the Christmas celebration upon the advent of Christianity, and songs are still to be heard at that time containing the name of the goddess, as

Kolyada! Kolyada! Kolyada has arrived On the eve of the Nativity.

These ditties are called Kolyadki.

Inferior deities were believed in and many supernatural beings were supposed to haunt the woods and waters. The Russalkas, which are naiads, though no more seen, are still believed in, and are of a nature similar to the elves and fairies of western nations. “They are generally represented under the form of beauteous maidens, with full and snow-white bosoms, and with long and slender limbs. Their feet are small, their eyes are wild, their faces are fair to see, but their complexion is pale, their expression anxious. Their hair is long and thick and wavy, and green as is the grass.” The Russians are very superstitious in regard to them, fearing to offend them, while the maidens go into the woods and throw garlands to them, asking for rich husbands in return.

Then there are Mavkas, or Little-Russian fairies and water-nymphs, wood demons, house spirits and numerous other minor spirits and powers which teem in the folk songs of the peasants.

Among the eastern Slavs there seem to have been no temples or priests, while the contrary was true of the west. They burned their dead and greatly reverenced the spirits of the departed, in whose honor festivals were held.

A form of Sutteeism undoubtedly prevailed, widows destroying themselves in order to accompany their husbands to the spirit land, while slaves were sometimes sacrificed upon the same occasions—a practice common to most barbarous states of society.

Upon a general view of ancient Slavonic mythology we observe the same characteristics as among all the other Indo-European tribes—the same nature-worship and inclination to personify the powers of the air and sky; to worship the beneficent sun, which brings to man prosperity, light and happiness; to execrate the night, the enemy of the bright, the beautiful god of day. Men in the childhood of the human race were as simple as children ever have been. The same characteristics mark them. When the mother leaves her child for a moment, the babe with piteous cries calls on her to return. Why is this so? Because in the mind of the child there is no connecting link between the ideas of her going and returning; in other words, the child cannot reason enough to consider it possible—not to say probable, _certain_—that she will return.

Thus in the simple pastoral days of extreme antiquity, when the glorious sun, the light of men’s eyes, the joy of their hearts, sank below the horizon, the idea of its return failed to suggest itself to their minds. Each sun-setting was a grief, each rising of the blessed orb a joy unspeakable.

And thus upon the plains of Iran, in the flowery meads of Asia Minor and on the Russian steppes, when man beheld the sun, his joy appeared, he fell on his face and thanked the regent of the sky for his light again.

Had the earth been nearer to the sun the face of Comparative Mythology had been changed; the sun-myth would have had to seek a different origin and home, and the history of that greatest of all studies—the study of man—would have had a different course.

It is sincerely to be hoped that the future of the Slavonic tribes may be such as God and nature have intended for them, and that their name may be changed again from _slaves_ to _Slavs_—“men of glory”—is the aspiration of all who have hopes for the race; in short, of all who wish well to our common humanity.

FOOTNOTES:

[B] Extract from a lecture delivered at Pacific Grove Assembly, July, 1883, Monterey, California.

[C] Ralston, “Songs of the Russian People,” from whom much information contained in this sketch is gained.

FROM THE BALTIC TO THE ADRIATIC.

By the Author of “German-American Housekeeping,” etc.

We hesitated quite awhile before deciding to expend fifty thalers for a trip from Berlin to Danzig, finally concluding that the historical interest of Marienburg, through which we would pass on our return, and the reputed picturesqueness of Danzig would compensate us for the time and money. At an early hour one September morning we drove across the busiest portion of Berlin (and most unknown to the traveler), to take our train at the _ost bahn_. I had seen this portion of the large city once before, when we started to visit the country of the Wends, the original people in all the region by the Baltic.

The tedious stretch of sand (broken here and there by a peasant’s house with red tile roof), was the same we had traversed so often in leaving Berlin for a neighboring town or city, the inevitable “plains of Moab” which discouraged Frederick the Great’s French gardeners. How such a thriving, populous city as Berlin has ever asserted itself in the sand, is a curious study. We passed Bismarck’s estate in Pomerania, “Schönhausen,” and one of the party reflected upon the great statesman, the largest factor in German political life; while the other remembered the sad and dejected royal pair which was driven by Napoleon’s fury to take this same route to Memel. The lovely Queen Louise and Frederick William III. were there with their royal children, praying that the tyrant’s hand might be stayed, and they brought back to their rightful kingdom. Alas! death claimed the beautiful queen before the peace for which she prayed was restored to Prussia. But in her son, the present emperor, there has been perpetuated the spirit of his mother. Prussia’s high position to-day has been secured not altogether by the might of her great army, nor the tremendous genius of her great statesmen, nor the ambition of her king, but by the growth of sentiment during the reigns of Frederick William III. and IV., and by the precept Queen Louise instilled into her sons during those dark and sorrowful days of exile in Memel: “My sons, let the spirit of Frederick the Great animate you,” etc.

Memel, Tilsit, and Königsberg were passed, and finally the blue Baltic and Danzig were in sight. We had almost looked for amber-colored water, so long had we associated the beautiful display of amber jewels in the Berlin shop windows with the Baltic, from which it is taken. Even Homer refers to the Baltic as the resting place of amber, its bed being laid with the sunny stone.

A multitude of ship-masts rose from the coast, and from beyond the pointed gables of the old city, lessening in altitude as the vista lengthened. This first glimpse was a more fascinating picture than we were afterward able to find. Yet the hotel helped the preconceived idea that Danzig was really a second Nuremberg.

The broad stone steps, or stairway, which started from the _portecochère_, were whitened by ashes, as one so often sees them in Germany—a pretty state of things for a lady descending in a black dress. The room we were to occupy was an immense ball-room, utilized in quiet times for a bed-room. Two candles burned in their tall candlesticks on the center-table, and by the light of the twilight we could see across the street some beautiful and curious carvings in the opposite gabled houses. The price paid for accommodations was large enough to have enabled us to see castles in the air, and to have our ball-room illuminated with gas until morning. We concluded they seldom had guests in this hotel, and therefore made heavy profits when some did come along.

That evening we wandered around the old crooked streets—paved in cobble-stones, which wore our shoes almost in pieces—until we were glad to pause in front of the great old red-brick cathedral. Its towers cut the big yellow moon in two at every angle we could see them. We stretched our heads to take in the tremendous dimensions of the cathedral, and the ornamentations of some of the best houses, until we suddenly remembered that it was nearing midnight, and that we had been in actual service at sight-seeing and traveling since an early hour that morning, so we returned to our ball-room and two candles. The next morning, we imagined, we would have a great treat in hunting up old carved furniture, for which Danzig, we had been told by our German friends, was equal to Augsburg; but the antiquarians had left no place unexplored. No trace of massive-legged table or curiously-carved chairs was to be found, save in the Museum and the Rathhaus (Council Hall). The stairway of the Council Hall remains indeed a monument to the ingenious designer and skillful carver, and the judge’s chair is most curious.

A fine old convent has been turned into a museum. Its _kreuz gänge_, or cross-passages, give the place a most mysterious, sequestered air, and they are gradually collecting some great pictures and treasures within its walls. But the Rathhaus, in its architecture, surpasses everything in Danzig, excepting, perhaps, its fine old gateways.

The most distinguished houses in Danzig have on either side of the entrance, at a distance of five feet, immense stones hewn out of solid rock. They are nine feet, probably, in circumference. A chain is attached, which is given a graceful swing before being fastened again to either side of the front door, about as high up as the brass knocker. As these big round stones grow smaller in perspective, they give a peculiar air to a street. They seem to be peculiar to Danzig, unless one or two dwellings in Edinburgh have them. The big stones, the large chains, the tremendous brass knockers, and the innumerable windows in the six stories of the pointed gables, suggest aristocratic dwellings, and surpass the houses in Nuremberg.

An important political meeting at Stettin defeated our intention of seeing Marienburg on our return to Berlin. Marienburg is a place few foreigners find out, but Lübke, in his “History of Art,” represents the architecture of the palace occupied by the knights, or crusaders, for two centuries, as one of the most exquisite ruins in all Germany. Thorn and Königsburg were also homes for this order of knights.

The following day at noon it was rather refreshing to drive into so modern and gay a place as Berlin, and forget that so many people must exist in places like Danzig. Mediæval life seems still to enwrap them there as in a garment. Their eyes are closed to any modern idea or project.

Berlin contains all that is new and progressive in Germany. That day as we sat in the garden of the “Thiergarten Hotel,” eating delicious salmon, the old emperor drove by in his open carriage, with his faithful _jäger_. He was still a subject for curiosity, as it was so soon after the attempt had been made to assassinate him, June 7, 1878. He was fired on as he drove by in this same open carriage with this same faithful _jäger_. The sight of the old emperor recalled the previous months which had been so full of political stir in Europe. The session of the Berlin Congress, and the occupation of Bosnia by the Austrians had taken place.

To describe Berlin to those who have not visited it, is simply telling, generally, the size of palaces, the number of art collections, the width of streets, the squares occupied by statues, the places of amusement, etc., but even when these objects and interests are put in writing they leave little impression until the place is seen. But there is another aspect of the great Prussian capital. It is a wonderful place just now, attracting so many foreign students to its university, the best musical talent to its conservatories, and the first military genius within its walls. No matter what branch of study one may choose, the instruction and illustration is right at hand. To the student of politics it is a most fruitful field, not only because distinguished statesmen frequent its streets every day, but because grave problems in political science are discussed in the Reichstag or taught in the University. The student of physics or of natural science can work under Helmholz and others; the student of music can secure Joachim or Clara Schumann, or the student of art, Knaus, or Richter. Berlin has no pulpit orator. The Dom is more frequented because of its tombs than for any living influence it extends. It contains the coffins of Frederick William the great elector, and Frederick I., king of Prussia. The Mendelssohn choir chants its anthems, and the emperor and empress bow at its communion table; but St. Hedwig’s Church is better attended. The American Chapel, built by the efforts of Mr. Whright, our American minister to the Prussian court, a devout Methodist, is still occupied and attended by travelers of the American-English type.

The annual exhibition of pictures in the academy, the many fine concerts, the treasures in the old museum, the Royal Library, the palaces, and the lovely drives along “Unter den Linden,” are only mentioned to show what Berlin does contain in the way of sights and pleasures. This Unter den Linden, the street so well known, was planned by Frederick William, in the seventeenth century, and is now worn by many royal carriages and busy hurrying mortals. The street about the opera house is crowded every morning by the eager buyers of tickets, which must be secured in the morning.

Surely life in Berlin can be made very attractive, but after a long residence there I am convinced that it has little religious life. The climate is depressing, the expense of living great, two other detractions. Potsdam, Sans Souci, Charlottenburg Tegel, and many other places in the suburbs, are, historically and naturally, charming resorts.

It is more compensating in Europe to go from place to place with some special work or subject in view than to go for mere sight-seeing. Your special work brings you nearer the people. If your landlady asks you what it is, and you take the trouble to tell her, she or some of her friends will at once see that you know all their acquaintances who are engaged in the same line of inquiry, and while the new acquaintances may not be socially or intellectually your ideals, yet their conversation will help you in the language and give you many opportunities.

Dresden I only know through hard work in the galleries, as though all its sights are familiar—the Schloss, Green Vaults with their immense treasures, the Military Museum, Museum of Natural History, the Grand Opera House, the Frauenkirche, Japanese Palace, cafés, coinages and statues; yet the picture gallery, with its priceless “Madonna di San Sisto” of Raphael is to me the starting point of interest and the essence of Dresden life.

From eight o’clock in the morning until four o’clock in the afternoon faithful copyists labor in the gallery. The price received for their work scarcely keeps them from starving. To go in among them for a time and work and feel as they do, enlarges one’s sympathies, and teaches one to love the masterpieces of the great artists. To the uninitiated in such matters it may be well to explain that before the permission is given to copy a picture in any of the European galleries, a good deal of red tape must be looked after, especially in Germany. The director demands a specimen of the applicant’s work, which must be a study from nature, either figure or landscape or still life. It is with considerable trepidation that the office of the “Herr Director” is entered. If the applicant is successful, he or she comes out with an elaborate paper containing the agreement, the name of picture to be copied, the number, room, etc., with the director’s name and the seal attached. One of the _gallerie diener_, as they are called in Germany, takes you under his care, arranges an easel, a piece of carpet, a rest-stick and table. You are recognized among the copyists, and the hat of every _gallerie diener_ is raised at your approach or departure. When you have finished, the inspector is allowed to criticise your work. You must pay the _diener_ who has waited upon you some _trink geld_, or a fee, as we would express it. At noon you can eat your cold lunch, in company with the other copyists, in front of a Raphael or a Correggio, a Titian or a Rubens, scrutinize its merits or laugh at its blunders, or speculate on the old master’s methods of using their pigments, without being amenable to any court. An artist’s life is a life of liberty—of thought, at least. Many of these copyists spend their afternoons in sketching, thus establishing their originality and emancipating themselves from servile observance of other men’s methods. In company with these plodding, intelligent artists, I have spent many delightful hours sketching in the “Alt Markt,” or the Zwinger, or at Sans Souci or Charlottenburg.

I have often wondered if the little Greek church in the suburbs of Dresden was as attractive to all travelers as to me. It is surrounded on one side by golden wheat fields, with red poppies and dark blue corn flowers growing among it. Its gilded dome, semi-domes, and minarets, shine like blazing lights against the dark blue sky. The style is such pure Byzantine and the inside so perfect in its appointments, and yet so simple; the service conducted in so solemn and devout a spirit, there seems to be much to impress the looker-on. There are no seats. On one side stand the women and on the other side the men, and before the altar the patriarch, or priest. The service is short, consisting almost entirely of singing by the men and boys, without the aid of an instrument. When the plate is passed for the collection it contains a roll of bread, the meaning of which I have never discovered, although James Freeman Clark may give it in the account of the Greek church in his “Ten Great Religions.” Their belief that the Holy Ghost proceeds from the Father, and not from the Father and Son, seems to be the most essential difference in prayer between the English Church and the Greek.

A summer in the Harz Mountains, taking in Weimar and Eisenach, and the “Wartburg,” is a charming experience. To find out that one can live in this age in so interesting a retreat as Weimar, for twenty dollars a month, gives back some of the simplicity to German life.

To a student of Goethe, Schiller, Wieland and Herder, no spot offers more pleasure than the quiet, old streets and groves and houses of Weimar. A mere drive through the park, passing Goethe’s summer house and on out to “Tiefert,” where the Grand Duchess Amelia held her little court, and the open air theater attracted a charming coterie to listen to Goethe or Schiller in some representation, re-awakens the genius of the times and arouses the appetite of the traveler for more acquaintance with the place. The next drive or stroll through the park will prove that every stone contains some rhyme, and every bench some association with those great men. There is a line to Frau Von Stein in the garden of Goethe’s country house, an elegy engraved on the stone as one ascends to the Roman house in the park. The front approach to this house is not so attractive, but the back is a fascinating place. It contains on the first floor an open room with round table and benches, where the Duke and his poets sat for hours, looking over the old stone steps into the park. A short stroll from there brings one to the large open space, in the middle of the park, which was laid out by Goethe, and represents precisely the dimensions of St. Peter’s in Rome. The immense ground plot of that church is here to be recognized more definitely than when one stands under its dome.

The grand ducal palace at Weimar contains one unique room, while all the others are handsome. The one which differs from similar palatial apartments is frescoed with scenes from the works of Weimar’s great poets. The halls are silent and one longs to see little fat Karl August step out of a _saal_ or the Duchess Amelia greet Goethe or Schiller on the stairway as in days of yore. Mr. Lewis, in his life of Goethe, portrays such scenes with a graphic pen.