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“When he came to the place, the water was spirting out everywhere. But Old Maggot didn’t mind. He grasped his hammer and borer and began. The work was done sooner than he had expected! Suddenly the rock gave way and the water burst upon him, putting out his candle and turning him heels over head. He jumped up and tried to run, but the flood rose on him, carried him off his legs, swept him right through the level, and hurled him through the adit-mouth at last, upon the sea-shore! He was stunned a little, but soon recovered, and, beyond a few bruises and a wetting, was nothing the worse of his adventure.
“That,” said Captain Jan, pointing to the rock beside us, “was the place where Old Maggot holed to the house of water, and this was the level through which he was washed and through part of which I will now conduct you.”
Accordingly, we traversed the level, and, coming to another shaft, continued our upward progress.
While we were slowly toiling up, step by step, we were suddenly arrested by the sound of voices singing in the far distance above us. The music was slow and solemn. Coming as it did so unexpectedly in such a strange place, it sounded quite magical and inexpressibly sweet.
“Miners descending to work,” said my guide, as we listened. The air was familiar to me, and, as it grew louder and louder, I recognised that beautiful tune called “French,” to which we are accustomed to sing the 121st Psalm, “I to the hills will lift mine eyes.” Gradually the men came down to us. We stood on one side. As they passed they ceased singing and nodded to Captain Jan. There were five or six stout fellows and a boy. The latter was as active as his companions, and his treble voice mingled tunefully with theirs as they continued the descent, and resumed the psalm, keeping time to the slow measured tread of their steps. We watched until their lights disappeared, and then resumed our upward way, while the sweet strains grew fainter and fainter, until they were gradually lost in the depths below. The pleasant memory of that psalm still remained with me, when I emerged from the ladder-shaft of Botallack mine, and—after having been five hours underground—once more drank in, (with a new and intensified power of appreciation), the fresh air of heaven and the blessed influences of green fields and sunshine.
To many a weird and curious part of the great mine did the obliging Captain Jan lead me, but perhaps the most interesting part was the lowest depth under the sea, to which my wife accompanied us. This part is reached by the Boscawen shaft, a sloping one which the men descend in an iron car or gig. The car is let down and hauled up by an iron rope. Once this rope broke, the car flew to the bottom, was dashed against the rock, and all the men—eight in number—were killed.
In 1865 the Prince and Princess of Wales descended this shaft, and Captain Jan was their amiable, not to say eccentric, guide. The Captain was particularly enthusiastic in praise of the Princess. He said that she was a “fine intelligent young lady; that she asked no end of questions, would not rest until she understood everything, and afterwards undertook to explain it all to her less-informed companions.” A somewhat amusing incident occurred while they were underground.
When about to begin his duty as guide it suddenly flashed across the mind of poor Captain Jan that, in the excitement of the occasion, he had forgotten to take gloves with him. He was about to lead the Princess by the hand over the rugged floors of the levels. To offer to do so without gloves was not to be thought of. To procure gloves 200 fathoms below the sea was impossible. To borrow from the Prince or the Duke of Sutherland, who were of the party, was out of the question. What was he to do? Suddenly he remembered that he had a newspaper in his pocket. In desperation he wrapped his right hand in a piece of this, and, thus covered, held it out to the Princess. She, innocently supposing that the paper was held up to be looked at, attempted to read. This compelled Captain Jan to explain himself, whereupon she burst into a hearty fit of laughter, and, flinging away the paper, took the ungloved hand of the loyal but bashful miner.
Chapter Six
The Land of the Vikings
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 “gamlé 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 otté 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, heré 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 Essé 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 Essé 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 Essé 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.
