To this romantic land of mountain and flood I paid four visits at
various times. These were meant as holiday and fishing rambles, but
were also utilised to gather material for future books.
Norway, as every one knows, was the land of the ancient Vikings--those
grand old rascally freebooters--whose indomitable pluck carried them in
their open galleys, (little better than big boats), all round the coasts
of Europe, across the unknown sea to Iceland, and even to the shores of
America itself, before the other nations dreamed of such a continent,
and long before Columbus was born; who possessed a literature long
before we did; whose blood we Britons carry in our veins; and from whom
we have inherited many of our best laws, much of our nautical
enterprise, and not a little of our mischief and pugnacity.
Norway, too, is the land where Liberty once found refuge in distress,--
that much abused goddess, whom, since the fall of Adam and Eve, License
has been endeavouring to defame, and Tyranny to murder, but who is still
alive and kicking--ay, and will continue to kick and flourish in spite
of all her enemies! Liberty found a home, and a rough welcome, strange
to say, among those pagans of the North, at a time when she was banished
from every other spot, even from the so-called Christian states in
Europe.
No wonder that that grand old country with its towering snow-clad
mountains, its mighty fords, its lonesome glens and its historical
memories should be styled "_gamle Norge_" (old Norway--as we speak of
old England), with feelings of affection by its energetic and now
peaceful inhabitants.
I was privileged to go to Norway as one of a yachting party. There were
twelve of us altogether, three ladies, three gentlemen, and a crew of
six sailors. Our object was to see the land and take what of amusement,
discomfort, or otherwise might chance to come in our way. We had a
rough passage over, and were very sick, sailors included! except the
captain, an old Scotch highlander who may be described as a compound of
obstinacy and gutta-percha. It took us four days to cross. We studied
the Norse language till we became sea-sick, wished for land till we got
well, then resumed the study of Norse until we sighted the outlying
islands and finally cast anchor in the quaint old city and port of
Bergen.
Now, it is well to admit at once that some of us were poor linguists;
but it is only just to add that we could not be expected to learn much
of any language in four days during intervals of internal derangement!
However, it is curious to observe how very small an amount of Norse will
suffice for ordinary travellers--especially for Scotchmen. The Danish
language is the vernacular tongue of Norway and there is a strong
affinity between Danish, (or Norse), and broad Scotch. Roughly
speaking, I should say that a mixture of three words of Norse to two of
broad Scotch, with a powerful emphasis and a strong infusion of
impudence, will carry you from the Naze to the North Cape in perfect
comfort.
Bergen is a most interesting city, and our party had many small
adventures in it, which, however, I will not touch on here. But one
scene--the fish-market--must not be passed over.
There must certainly be something in the atmosphere of a fish-market
which tends to call forth the mental and physical energies of mankind,
(perhaps I should rather say of _womankind_), and which calls forth a
tremendous flow of abusive language. Billingsgate is notorious, but I
think that the Bergen fish-market beats it hollow. One or two phases of
the national character are there displayed in perfection. It is the
Billingsgate of Norway--the spot where Norse females are roused to a
pitch of frenzy that is not equalled, I believe, in any other country.
There are one or two peculiarities about the Bergen market, too, which
are noteworthy, and which account in some degree for the frantic
excitement that reigns there. The sellers of the fish, in the first
place, are not women but men. The pier and fleet of boats beside it
constitute the market-place. The fishermen row their cargoes of fish
direct from the sea to the pier, and there transact sales. There is a
stout iron railing along the edge of that pier--a most needful
safeguard--over which the servant girls of the town lean and look down
at the fishermen, who look up at them with a calm serio-comic
"don't-you-wish-you-may-get-it" expression that is deeply impressive.
Bargains, of course, are not easily made, and it is in attempting to
make these that all the hubbub occurs. The noise is all on the women's
side. The men, secure in their floating position, and certain of
ultimate success, pay very little attention to the flaxen-haired,
blue-eyed damsels who shout at them like maniacs, waving their arms,
shaking their fists, snapping their fingers, and flourishing their
umbrellas! They all carry umbrellas--cotton ones--of every colour in
the rainbow, chiefly pink and sky-blue, for Bergen is celebrated as
being the most rainy city in Europe.
The shouting of the girls is not only a safety-valve to their feelings,
but is absolutely necessary in order to attract the attention of the
men. As 15 or 20 of them usually scream at once, it is only she who
screams loudest and flourishes her umbrella most vigorously that can
obtain a hearing. The calm unruffled demeanour of the men is as much a
feature in the scene as is the frenzy of the women.
During one of my visits I saw a fisherman there who was the most
interesting specimen of cool impudence I ever encountered. He wore a
blue coat, knee-breeches, white worsted stockings, and on his head of
long yellow hair a red night-cap with a tall hat on top of all. When I
discovered him he was looking up with a grave sarcastic expression into
the flushed countenance of a stout, blue-eyed lass who had just eagerly
offered him _syv skillings_ (seven skillings), for a lot of fish. That
was about 3 and a half pence, the skilling being half a penny. The man
had declined by look, not by tongue, and the girl began to grow angry.
"Haere du, fiskman," (hear you, fisherman), she cried, "vil du har otte
skillings?" (will you have eight skillings?)
The fisherman turned away and gazed out to sea. The girl grew crimson
in the face at this.
"Fiskman, fiskman!" she cried, "vil du har _ni_ (nine) skillings?"
The fisherman kicked out of the way a lobster that was crawling too near
his naked toes, and began to bale out the boat. The girl now seemed to
become furious. Her blue eyes flashed like those of a tiger. She
gasped for breath, while her cotton umbrella flashed over the
fisherman's head like a pink meteor. Had that umbrella been only a foot
longer the tall black hat would have come to grief undoubtedly.
Suddenly she paused, and in a tone of the deepest solemnity, said--
"Haere du, fiskman, vil du har ti (ten) shillings?"
The rock of Gibraltar is not more unyielding than was that "fiskman."
He took off his hat, removed his night-cap, smoothed his yellow hair,
and wiped his forehead; then, replacing the cap and hat, he thrust both
hands into his coat pockets, turned his back on the entire market, and
began to whistle.
This was too much! It was past female endurance! The girl turned
round, scattered the bystanders right and left, and fled as if she had
resolved then and there to dash out her brains on the first post she
met, and so have done with men and fish for ever. But she was not done
with them yet! The spell was still upon her. Ere she had got a dozen
yards away she paused, stood one moment in uncertainty, and then rushing
back forced her way to the old position, and shouted in a tone that
might have moved the hearts even of the dead fish--
"Fiskman, here du, vil du hav tolve?"
"Tolve" (or twelve) skillings was apparently not quite the sum he meant
to take; but he could hold out no longer--he wavered--and the instant
man wavers, woman's victory is gained! Smiling benignly he handed up
the fish to the girl, and held out his baling dish for the money.
The storm was over! The girl walked off in triumph with her fish, not a
trace of her late excitement visible, the pink cotton umbrella tucked
under her arm, and her face beaming with the consciousness of having
conquered a "_fiskman_" in fair and open fight!
Steamers ply regularly between the north and south of Norway in summer,
and an excursion in one of these is very enjoyable, not only on account
of the scenery, but because of the opportunity afforded of making the
acquaintance of the people. I once made a voyage in one of those
steamers from the Nordfjord to Bergen, and one thing struck me very
particularly on that occasion, namely, the _quietness_ that seemed to be
cultivated by the people as if it were a virtue. I do not mean to say
that the passengers and crew were taciturn--far from it. They bustled
about actively; they were quite sociable and talkative, but no voice was
ever raised to a loud pitch. Even the captain gave his orders in a
quiet tone. Whether this quietness of demeanour is peculiar to
Norwegian steamers in general, or was a feature of this steamer in
particular, I am not prepared to say. I can only state the fact of the
prevailing quietude on that particular occasion without pretending to
explain it.
The state of quiescence culminated at the dinner-table, for there the
silence was total! I never saw anything like it! When we had all
assembled in the cabin, at the almost whispered invitation of the
steward, and had stood for a few minutes looking benign and expectant,
but not talking, the captain entered, bowed to the company, was bowed to
by the company, motioned us to our seats, whispered "_ver so goot_," and
sat down.
Now this phrase "_ver so goot_" merits particular notice. It is an
expression that seems to me capable of extension and distension. It is
a flexible, comfortable, jovial, rollicking expression. To give a
perfect translation of it is not easy; but I cannot think of a better
way of conveying its meaning, than by saying that it is a compound of
the phrases--"be so good," "by your leave," "what's your will," "bless
your heart," "all serene," and "that's your sort!"
The first of these, "be so good," is the literal translation--the others
are the super-induced sentiments, resulting from the tone and manner in
which it is said. You may rely on it, that, when a Norwegian offers you
anything and says _ver so goot_, he means you well and hopes you will
make yourself comfortable.
Well, there was no carving at that dinner. The dishes were handed round
by waiters. First we had very thin rice soup with wine and raisins in
it--the eating of which seemed to me like spoiling one's dinner with a
bad pudding. This finished, the plates were removed. "_Now_," thought
I, "surely some one will converse with his neighbour during this
interval." No! not a lip moved! I looked at my right and left-hand
men; I thought, for a moment, of venturing out upon the unknown deep of
a foreign tongue, and cleared my throat for that purpose, but every eye
was on me in an instant; and the sound of my own voice, even in that
familiar process, was so appalling that I said nothing! I looked at a
pretty girl opposite me. I felt certain that the youth beside her was
about to speak--he looked as if he meant to, but he didn't. In a few
minutes the next course came on. This was a dish like bread-pudding,
minus currants and raisins; it looked like a sweet dish, but it turned
out to be salt,--and pure melted butter, without any admixture of flour
or water, was handed round as sauce. After this came veal and beef
cutlets, which were eaten with cranberry jam, pickles, and potatoes.
Fourth and last came a course of cold sponge-cake, with almonds and
raisins stewed over it, so that, when we had eaten the cake as a sort of
cold pudding, we slid, naturally and pleasantly, into dessert, without
the delay of a change of plates.
There was no remaining to drink at that dinner. When the last knife and
fork were laid down, we all rose simultaneously, and then a general
process of bowing ensued.
In regard to this proceeding I have never been able to arrive at a clear
understanding, as to what was actually done or intended to be done, but
my impression is, that each bowed to the other, and all bowed to the
captain; then the captain bowed to each individually and to all
collectively, after which a comprehensive bow was made by everybody to
all the rest all round--and then we went on deck to smoke. As each
guest passed out, he or she said to the captain, "_tak for mad_," which
is a manner and custom, and means "_thanks for meat_." With the
exception of these three words, not a single syllable, to the best of my
belief, was uttered by any one during the whole course of that meal!
Of course the gentlemen of our party performed many wonderful exploits
in fishing, for sea-trout and salmon abound in Norway, and the river
beds are very rugged.
In that land fishing cannot be styled the "gentle art." It is a
tearing, wearing, rasping style of work. An account of the catching of
one fish will prove this.
One morning I had gone off to fish by myself, with a Norwegian youth to
gaff and carry the fish. Coming to a sort of weir, with a deep pool
above and a riotous rapid below, I put on a salmon fly and cast into the
pool. At once a fish rose and was hooked. It was not a big one--only
12 pounds or thereabouts--but quite big enough to break rod and line if
not played respectfully.
For some time, as is usual with salmon, he rushed about the pool, leaped
out of the water, and bored up stream. Then he took to going down
stream steadily. Now this was awkward, for when a fish of even that
size resolves to go down stream, nothing can stop him. My efforts were
directed to turning him before he reached the rapid, for, once into
that, I should be compelled to follow him or break the line--perhaps the
rod also.
At last he reached the head of the rapid. I put on a heavy strain. The
rod bent like a hoop and finally began to crack, so I was compelled to
let him go.
At the lower end of the pool there was a sort of dam, along which I ran,
but soon came to the end of it, where it was impossible to reach the
shore owing to the dense bushes which overhung the stream. But the fish
was now in the rapid and was forced down by the foaming water. Being
very unwilling to break the line or lose the fish, I went slowly into
the rapid until the water reached the top of my long wading boots--
another step and it was over them, but that salmon would not--indeed
could not--stop. The water filled my boots at once, and felt very cold
at first, but soon became warm, and each boot was converted into a
warmish bath, in which the legs felt reasonably comfortable.
I was reckless now, and went on, step by step, until I was up to the
waist, then to the arm-pits, and then I spread out one arm and swam off
while with the other I held up the rod.
The rapid was strong but deep, so that nothing obstructed me till I
reached the lower end, when a rock caught my legs and threw me into a
horizontal position, with the rod flat on the water. I was thrown
against the bank, where my Norwegian boy was standing mouth open, eyes
blazing, and hand extended to help me out.
When I stood panting on the bank, I found that the fish was still on and
still inclined to descend, but I found that I could not follow, for my
legs were heavy as lead--the boots being full of water. To take the
latter off in a hurry and empty them was impossible. To think of losing
the fish after all was maddening. Suddenly a happy thought struck me.
Handing the rod to the boy I lay down on my back, cocked my legs in the
air, and the water ran like a deluge out at the back of my neck! Much
relieved, I resumed the rod, but now I found that the fish had taken to
sulking.
This sulking is very perplexing, for the fish bores its nose into some
deep spot below a stone, and refuses to budge. Pulling him this way and
that way had no effect. Jerking him was useless. Even throwing stones
at him was of no avail. I know not how long he kept me there, but at
last I lost patience, and resolved to force him out, or break the line.
But the line was so good and strong that it caused the rod to show
symptoms of giving way.
Just then it struck me that as there were several posts of an old weir
in the middle of the stream, he must have twisted the line round one of
these, broken himself off and left me attached to it! I made up my mind
therefore to wade out to the old weir, and unwind the line, and gave the
rod to the boy to hold while I did so.
The water was deep. It took me nearly up to the neck before I reached
the shallow just above the posts, but, being thoroughly wet, that did
not matter.
On reaching the post, and unwinding the line, I found to my surprise
that the fish was still there. At first I thought of letting go the
line, and leaving the boy to play him; "but," thought I, "the boy will
be sure to lose him," so I held on to the line, and played it with my
hands. Gradually the fish was tired out. I drew him slowly to my side,
and gaffed him in four feet of water.
Even then I was not sure of him, for when I got him under one arm he
wriggled violently, so that it was difficult to wade ashore with him.
In this difficulty I took him to a place where the shoal in the middle
of the stream was about three inches deep. There I lay down on him,
picked up a stone and hammered his head with it, while the purling water
rippled pleasantly over my face.
The whole of this operation took me upwards of two hours. It will be
seen, therefore, that fishing in Norway, as I have said, cannot be
called "the gentle art."
One extremely interesting excursion that we made was to a place named
the Esse Fjord. The natives here were very hospitable and kind.
Besides that, they were fat! It would almost seem as if fat and
good-humour were invariably united; for nearly all the natives of the
Esse Fjord were good-humoured and stout!
The language at this place perplexed me not a little. Nevertheless the
old proverb, "where there's a will there's a way," held good, for the
way in which I conversed with the natives of that region was astounding
even to myself.
One bluff, good-humoured fellow took me off to see his house and family.
I may as well admit, here, that I am not a good linguist, and usually
left our ladies to do the talking! But on this occasion I found myself,
for the first time, alone with a Norwegian! fairly left to my own
resources.
Well, I began by stringing together all the Norse I knew, (which wasn't
much), and endeavoured to look as if I knew a great deal more. But I
soon found that the list of sentences, which I had learned from Murray's
_Handbook_, did not avail much in a lengthened conversation. My speech
quickly degenerated into sounds that were almost unintelligible to
either my new friend or myself! and I terminated at last in a mixture of
bad Norse and broad Scotch. I have already remarked on the strong
family-likeness between Norse and broad Scotch. Here are a few
specimens.
They call a cow a _coo_! A house is a _hoose_, and a mouse is a
_moose_! _Gaae til land_, is go to land, or go ashore. _Tak ain stole_
is take a stool, or sit down. Vil du tak am dram? scarcely needs
translation--will you take a dram! and the usual answer to that question
is equally clear and emphatic--"Ya, jeg vil tak am dram!" One day our
pilot saw the boat of a fisherman, (or fiskman), not far off. He knew
we wanted fish, so, putting his hands to his mouth, he shouted "Fiskman!
har du fisk to sell?" If you talk of bathing, they will advise you to
"dook oonder;" and should a mother present her baby to you, she will
call it her "smook barn"--her pretty bairn--smook being the Norse word
for "pretty," and _barn_ for child; and it is a curious fact, worthy of
particular note, that all the mothers in Norway think their bairns
smook--very smook! and they never hesitate to tell you so--why, I cannot
imagine, unless it be that if you were not told you would not be likely
to find it out for yourself.
Despite our difficulty of communication, my fat friend and I soon became
very amicable and talkative. He told me no end of stories, of which I
did not comprehend a sentence, but looked as if I did--smiled, nodded my
head, and said "ya, ya,"--to which he always replied "ya, ya,"--waving
his arms, and slapping his breast, and rolling his eyes, as he bustled
along beside me towards his dwelling. The house was perched on a rock
close to the water's edge. Here my host found another subject to
expatiate upon and dance round, in the shape of his own baby, a soft,
smooth, little imitation of himself, which lay sleeping in its crib,
like a small cupid. The man was evidently extremely fond of this
infant. He went quite into ecstasies about it; now gazing at it with
looks of pensive admiration; anon, starting and looking at me as if to
say, "_Did you ever, in all your life, see such a beautiful cherub_?"
The man's enthusiasm was really catching--I began to feel quite a
fatherly interest in the cherub myself.
"Oh!" he cried, in rapture, "det er smook barn!"
"Ya, ya," said I, "megit smook," (very pretty)--although I must confess
that _smoked_ bairn would have been nearer the mark, for it was as brown
as a red-herring.
I spent an agreeable, though I must confess mentally confused, afternoon
with this gentleman, who, (when he succeeded in tearing himself away
from that much-loved and megit smook barn), introduced me to his two
sisters, who were stout and good-humoured like himself. They treated me
to a cup of excellent coffee, and to a good deal more of
incomprehensible conversation. Altogether, the natives of the Esse
Fjord made a deep impression on us, and we parted from their grand and
gloomy but hospitable shores with much regret.
I had hoped, good reader, to have jotted down some more of my personal
reminiscences of travel--in Algiers, the "Pirate City," at the Cape of
Good Hope, and elsewhere--but bad health is not to be denied, and I find
that I must hold my hand.
Perchance this may be no misfortune, for possibly the "garrulity of age"
is descending on me!
Before closing this sketch, however, I would say briefly, that in all my
writings I have always tried--how far successfully I know not--to
advance the cause of Truth and Light, and to induce my readers to put
their trust in the love of God our Saviour, for this life as well as the
life to come.