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?)