“And so clever and agreeable they are,” put in the Dane’s lady. “Mr. Bernard especially. He has a wonderfully winning manner about him.”
“The chief of the mission,” continued the doctor, “is M. Etienne, a Russian by birth, whose real name is Djunkovsky, and who has become a convert from the Greek faith. He is styled M. le Préfet Apostolique des Missions Polàires du Nord, de l’Amerique, &c.; and proposes, he says, to operate hereafter on parts of North America. On St. Olaf’s day, he invited forty of the most respectable people in the neighbourhood to a banquet, and, in a speech which he made, said that the Norsk religion had much similarity with the Roman Catholic; and that Saint Olaf was the greatest of Norsk kings. Still, I think they have higher game in view than Norway.”
A master-stroke of policy, thought I. The Propaganda will have surpassed itself if it should succeed in setting these people thinking. The children of the autocrat will cast off their leading-strings yet; and the strife between the Latin and Greek Church rage, not between the monks at the Holy City, but in the heart of holy Russia.
At this pause in the conversation, the Frenchman, who did not seem a whit disconcerted at his former faux pas, recommenced his criticisms. The fare, and the doings on board generally, evidently did not jump with his humour. “What is this composition?” he inquired of the steward. “Miös-Ost?” (a sort of goat’s-milk cheese, the size and shape of a brick, and the colour of hare-soup). “It’s very sweet,” observed the Frenchman, sarcastically; “is there any sugar in it?”
“No!” thundered the captain, who did not seem to relish these strictures. “No. It’s made of good Norsk milk, and that is so sweet that no sugar is required.”
This remark had the effect of making the Gaul look small, and he gulped down any further satire that he might have had on his tongue.
I heard, by-the-bye, an amusing anecdote of these cheeses. They are considered a delicacy in Norway; and a merchant of Christiania sent one as a present to a friend in England. The British custom-house authorities took it for a lump of diachylon, and charged it accordingly, as drugs, a great deal more than it was worth.
As we sail through the Great Belt, the mast-tops of a wrecked vessel appear sticking out of the water near the lighthouse of Lessö. It has been a case of collision, that dreadful species of accident that threatens to be more fatal to modern navies than storms and tempests. In this case, the schooner seemed determined to run against something, so she actually ran against the lighthouse, in a still night, and when the light was plain to see. The concussion was so great, that the vessel sank a few yards off, with some of her crew. The lighthouse rock is in statu quo.
Run your head against a wall,