Christiansand.

The first port touched en route for the capital of Norway is Christiansand, which is snugly hidden in the extreme south of the district of Sætersdalen—that land of eccentricity in costume and quaintness of habitation, of short waists and long trousers reaching to the shoulders, above which come the shallow, baby-looking jackets. With what zest does one strain for the first peep at a seaport of a foreign land! What value is attached to the earliest indication of varying costume, or even a new form of chimney! The steamer from Hull generally arrives at Christiansand on Sunday, when it is looking its neatest, the white tower of the church shining over the wooden houses of the town, the Norwegian shipping all in repose, with the exception, perhaps, of the heavy, compressed, Noah’s ark kind of dumpy barges, or a customs’ gig containing some official. As we looked up at the church tower we could not but wonder if we should hear, during our short visit, the whistle of the “Vægter;” for tradition says that, for the protection of the place, a watchman is always on the look-out, ready to give the alarm should a fire break out in the town, which, being built almost entirely of wood, would soon be reduced to a heap of ashes. But no; we heard no whistle, not even a rehearsal. On dit that for three hundred years has the Vægter looked out afar, and no alarum has issued from the tower. Christiansand has been mercifully preserved from fire, and long may it be so!

During the passage over a friend told me of a Norwegian he once met on board. He was a Christiansander. The Norseman was in high glee, and, having entered into conversation with my friend, soon proposed a skaal (health). This achieved, the story of the Norseman began to run rapidly off the reel, and it is so characteristic of the people that we cannot do better than repeat it here. Born at Christiansand, at the age of sixteen Lars became restless, wanted to see America, and make his way in life, for which there was not much scope in the small seaport. Lars’s father and mother were then living, with one daughter, who would take care of them whilst he started for the battle-field of life. He therefore determined to go. On his arrival in America he had a terrible struggle for existence, there being so many emigrants of all nations and classes. After patient endurance he began to get on, and saved sufficient to go to Chicago and California. During this time of trial how he thought about the chimes from the old white tower, the Vægter, and the fair-haired sister he had left behind, and wondered if all were well with the old people! At San Francisco he did pretty well for some time; but hearing one day that at Yokohama, in Japan, there was a good opening for a supply of butter (smör), his Norske associations were aroused, and his thoughts ran back to sæters, piger, cows, cream, and green pastures. That was the thing for Lars. So off he started for Yokohama, and having established a lucrative butter business, he determined to write home and send some money to his father and mother. This was a great pleasure to the kind-hearted fellow, while their answer assured him of the joy of those whom he had left behind on hearing of his safety and success, and receiving such a token of filial love. But the associations of home and childhood are strong, and it was not long before he experienced a desire to return. At length, however, he decided on developing the butter trade still further, and then, having a good offer to go back to San Francisco, he sold the whole business and good-will for a good round sum, and started on a new career, which this time took the form of brewing. How Norwegian! what national items!—butter (smör) and ale (öl). Again Lars was successful, and derived much comfort from the fact that he was thereby enabled to enhance the home happiness at Christiansand. Happy the son who comforts a father! Happy the paternal old age cherished by a son’s love! Beer, or rather ale, became the basis of a lucrative business. Lars, however, speedily discovered that bottled ale was the leading article to make the concern pay largely. But bottles were the difficulty; they were expensive items, and not manufactured in San Francisco. Lars often thought over this problem, which his partner, likewise, was unable to solve. Luckily one evening the good Norseman—he must have been indulging in a quiet pipe—had a happy thought. While musing over his early days the bottle-makers of Christiansand passed before him. He at once decided on making arrangements for visiting the old seaport, and, having seen those most dear to him on earth, to bring a bottle manufacturer back with him, thus combining business with pleasure. This is the yarn he told my friend, and when they entered the harbour poor Lars’s anxiety was intense. He had telegraphed to say that he was coming, and expected some one to meet and welcome him. During his absence he had heard that his sister had married happily, and that the son-in-law was very kind to his father; so Lars’s mind was set at rest. A boat neared the steamer, in the stern-sheets of which sat an aged man, a fair-haired Norseman rowing him. The old man was Lars’s father, who was soon on deck looking round, but he could not see his boy. At last, however, he spied him, and, throwing his arms round his neck, was fairly overcome with joy. On recovering, the old gentleman began a good flow of Norske, when poor Lars for the first time realised how long he had been away; for, like the Claimant, he could not remember his native language, and it was some time before either of them thought of landing. Meanwhile, we heartily wish the good Lars increased success. May his bottles be manufactured on the spot, and his good öl cheer the heart without muddling the brain!

When we entered Christiansand we also looked out for a boat; for Hans Luther Jordhoy had come down from Gudbransdalen to meet us, and was soon on board. A closely knit frame, fair beard, moderate stature, and kindly eye—there stood our future companion before us. Our first impressions were never disturbed; he had very good points, and has afforded us many pleasing associations in connection with our visit to Norge.

As we steamed out of the harbour of Christiansand we met a passenger coast steamer coming in—one of those innumerable small screw steamers which run in and out of every fjord from Cape Lindesnæs to the North Cape. Are their names not written in Norges Communicationer, the Norwegian Bradshaw? The kindly feeling of the Norwegians towards the English was at once manifest, for no sooner did the brass band on board the excursion boat recognise our nationality than it struck up “God save the Queen.” We quite regretted that we had no band to return the compliment, and the only thing left for us was to give them a hearty cheer.

This done, we started on our run to Christiania, with comparatively smooth water, a lovely evening, a prolonged crepusculum, and, late in the evening, a sweet little French song, sung with the most delightful simplicity by a lady. “Petites Fleurs des Bois” is indelibly impressed on the mind of the Patriarch. When it afterwards became known that we were indebted to an English bride for such a treat—which it really was—the bachelors whispered “A happy bond of union!” but considered, at the same time, that Norwegian travelling was scarcely made on purpose for honeymooning. Take carrioles, for instance, or the jolting stolkjærre, in which the bride might sometimes find herself unceremoniously thrown into the lap of the bridegroom, or vice versâ. No; unless the lady is familiar with the manners, customs, and petty inconveniences attendant on travelling in Norway, that country will not prove the happy hunting-ground for honeymoons.

The Courtyard, Victoria Hotel, Christiania.

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