The gentleman who had been conversing with me in German, and apparently considered me a Teuton, said he could talk French also; but as for that horrid English, those people began a sentence and rolled it in their mouths, spit it half out, and the rest they swallowed. I strongly recommend any Englishman, who wishes to hear what people on the Continent think of John Bull and his wife, not to betray his nation if he can help it, and then he has some chance of getting at the true state of opinion without flattery. This rule will apply to general society, such as one meets abroad. But there is a no less golden exception, which is this: never at a custom-house or police-office know the language of the officials; if you do, they are sure to badger you, especially if you are above suspicion. If, on the other hand, you shrug your shoulders, and keep replying to their remarks in English, you will completely foil their efforts at annoyance, and they will not be able to make anything of you, and look out for other prey.
Another remarkably polite and intelligent official now proceeded to show me some beautiful specimens of pure silver in another part of the building. Some of these “Handstene,” as they are called, I purchased. Here, too, were those splendid specimens that appeared at the Great Exhibition in London, and also in Paris; and gained a medal in both instances. The bronze medal, designed by Wyon, with the busts of Victoria and Albert, and likewise the silver one of Napoleon, were side by side; the latter pretty, doubtless, but, to my thinking, and also that of the inspector, vastly inferior to the former, which, he said, was a real work of art.
My companions at dinner were the engineer of the new road out of Kongsberg, and a Hungarian refugee, getting his living by portrait-painting. All things considered, I should think that the engineer’s trade was the better of the two. But the artist was a good-looking fellow, and twirled his moustache with great complacency; so that, perhaps, he got sitters. At all events, he could have no competition.
CHAPTER XVI.
A grumble about roads—Mr. Dahl’s caravansary—“You’ve waked me too early”—St. Halvard—Professor Munck—Book-keeping by copper kettles—Norwegian society—Fresh milk—Talk about the great ship—Horten the chief naval station of Norway—The Russian Admiral G——Conchology—Tönsberg the most ancient town in Norway—Historical reminiscences—A search for local literature—An old Norsk patriot—Nobility at a discount—Passport passages—Salmonia—A tale for talkers—Agreeable meeting—The Roman Catholics in Finmark—A deep design—Ship wrecked against a lighthouse—The courtier check-mated.
The new road, which avoids some fearful hills, will soon be finished; and that is the excuse for not repairing the old one, which was something like what Holborn Hill would be with all the paving-stones up.
Prince Napoleon, who has just returned from his voyage to Spitzbergen and the Arctic regions, is about to visit Kongsberg in company with one of the Royal Princes of Sweden, to-morrow. It is lucky for the highway surveyors that it is not the King of Oude. They doubtless would have been put into the ruts to fill them up, or smelted in the smelting-houses, or have had to undergo some other refined process.