THE LAST CAMP OF THE ENGLISH GIPSIES IN NORWAY.
The vessel was well ventilated, but we preferred the “Albion;” the “Hero” being full-decked from stem to stern, there was very little shelter, except in the smoke-room.
We had a number of Norwegian emigrants, going to America, in the second-class cabins.
No accommodation had been provided for our donkeys. They were left to take their chance on deck, in a cold, damp night, at sea. When we went to see them, our Puru Rawnee looked as if she could have kicked H. Heitman overboard. Captain Nicholson did what he could for us, when we spoke to him about them. No agent of common feeling would have left them thus to take their chance. As God is to man, so man is to animals. Kindness is required from man to those living creatures created for his use.
We could not help liking Captain Nicholson. There was a manly spirit about him, and at the same time we saw he possessed a kindly heart. The sailors put up by his directions afterwards, a sort of rude tent of sails, under which our donkeys had to balance themselves, on the wet deck, looking exceedingly uncomfortable, and out of place. They had been exposed all the Friday night near the fore-hatchway, without the slightest shelter.
It so happened that by good fortune John Smith was our steward, his wife the stewardess. They are wonderful people. John Smith is slightly past the meridian of age; a little bald, but active and stirring, and of such energy! Always on his legs. He could far surpass the most distinguished, and eminent acrobat, in the way he balanced plates, dishes of fowl, bottles of champagne, anchovy sauce, wine glasses, and dozens of other things besides.
“Coming, sir. Iced champagne, if you please; who said seltzer water and brandy? Mange tak. Eating sir! nothing but eating!”
Impatient tourist.—“John Smith, you have not given me any sauce with my fish.”
“Caper, sir, or Worstershire? Coming, captain. Oh, dear! what are they about up there? Oh, here it is, all hot. That’s right,” says John Smith, balancing hot plates, on the tips of his fingers, as if he expected a round of applause from the passengers. “Here you are—hot plates, sir. Perry for you. Did you say tea? ver so artig. Sugar and cream—Tak skal de have. The year’s over—bang, bang. Thank goodness, here are some empty bottles broken—I did not know what to do with them. How could I find a father for so many dead men? Ah, pease pudding for you, sir—half a pound? No, not for you, sir. You, sir? Here it is on a smaller plate, so that you should not think it was the same. I wish I could change my name; I’m tired of hearing it. Have you everything you want, sir?” as he looked across the table at us. “More bread? here it is, sir,” and the identical John Smith still pushed about without assistance, but every finger, was worth its weight in gold.
On Saturday morning we came to Christiansand, and on going ashore received two letters from the post-office, paying eighteen skillings. They were both from some English gipsies, who expected we should be all killed in the war. Their ideas of geography were very loose.