The Swedes pique themselves on their politeness;but far from being the polish of a cultivated mind,it consists merely of tiresome forms and ceremonies.So far,indeed,from entering immediately into your character,and making you feel instantly at your ease,like the well-bred French,their over-acted civility is a continual restraint on all your actions.The sort of superiority which a fortune gives when there is no superiority of education,excepting what consists in the observance of senseless forms,has a contrary effect than what is intended;so that I could not help reckoning the peasantry the politest people of Sweden,who,only aiming at pleasing you,never think of being admired for their behaviour.
Their tables,like their compliments,seem equally a caricature of the French.The dishes are composed,as well as theirs,of a variety of mixtures to destroy the native taste of the food without being as relishing.Spices and sugar are put into everything,even into the bread;and the only way I can account for their partiality to high-seasoned dishes is the constant use of salted provisions.
Necessity obliges them to lay up a store of dried fish and salted meat for the winter;and in summer,fresh meat and fish taste insipid after them.To which may be added the constant use of spirits.Every day,before dinner and supper,even whilst the dishes are cooling on the table,men and women repair to a side-table;and to obtain an appetite eat bread-and-butter,cheese,raw salmon,or anchovies,drinking a glass of brandy.Salt fish or meat then immediately follows,to give a further whet to the stomach.As the dinner advances,pardon me for taking up a few minutes to describe what,alas!has detained me two or three hours on the stretch observing,dish after dish is changed,in endless rotation,and handed round with solemn pace to each guest;but should you happen not to like the first dishes,which was often my case,it is a gross breach of politeness to ask for part of any other till its turn comes.But have patience,and there will be eating enough.
Allow me to run over the acts of a visiting day,not overlooking the interludes.
Prelude a luncheon--then a succession of fish,flesh,and fowl for two hours,during which time the dessert--I was sorry for the strawberries and cream--rests on the table to be impregnated by the fumes of the viands.Coffee immediately follows in the drawing-room,but does not preclude punch,ale,tea and cakes,raw salmon,&c.A supper brings up the rear,not forgetting the introductory luncheon,almost equalling in removes the dinner.A day of this kind you would imagine sufficient;but a to-morrow and a to-morrow--A never-ending,still-beginning feast may be bearable,perhaps,when stern winter frowns,shaking with chilling aspect his hoary locks;but during a summer,sweet as fleeting,let me,my kind strangers,escape sometimes into your fir groves,wander on the margin of your beautiful lakes,or climb your rocks,to view still others in endless perspective,which,piled by more than giant's hand,scale the heavens to intercept its rays,or to receive the parting tinge of lingering day--day that,scarcely softened unto twilight,allows the freshening breeze to wake,and the moon to burst forth in all her glory to glide with solemn elegance through the azure expanse.
The cow's bell has ceased to tinkle the herd to rest;they have all paced across the heath.Is not this the witching time of night?
The waters murmur,and fall with more than mortal music,and spirits of peace walk abroad to calm the agitated breast.Eternity is in these moments.Worldly cares melt into the airy stuff that dreams are made of,and reveries,mild and enchanting as the first hopes of love or the recollection of lost enjoyment,carry the hapless wight into futurity,who in bustling life has vainly strove to throw off the grief which lies heavy at the heart.Good night!A crescent hangs out in the vault before,which woos me to stray abroad.It is not a silvery reflection of the sun,but glows with all its golden splendour.Who fears the fallen dew?It only makes the mown grass smell more fragrant.Adieu!
